Warcraft: Legacy of Sin
by OmegaTrooper
Summary: The Third War left in its wake destruction and suffering. While the nations of Azeroth struggle to recover the shadows of splendor, those left behind fight for their own convictions, redemption, and revenge. Sequel to The Third War and War of the Ruins.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

The landscape flowed onward like an endless painting. Green hills rose and fell between sparse towns and holdfasts, while distant mountains speared the sky. Slight clouds dotted the blue depths of the sky. It was a quiet, beautiful day. Snaking through the hills was a cobbled road that led north. Brown grass grew through the crags of the ancient highway, a signature to nature's slow reclamation over civilization.

The sounds of heavy hooves on the stones echoed between the rolling hills. Alistair Sancre surveyed his surroundings with a deep-set suspicion. The land hid their enemies; orcs and undead. Cold wind blew from mountains, rustling the long grass of the hills. That northern wind had long been known as the Breath of Strom. It made him shiver even through his furs and leathers.

Shouts of command came from the head of their column. Alistair could not hear through the chilling wind so he held his spurs into the horse's flanks a little harder, hurrying forward to listen in. They were thirteen, knights and warriors of the highlands. They were the blood of humanity's womb, its first kingdom and empire; Strom. Each wore thick fur cloaks made from wild fox hide which despite their weight fluttered due to the speed with which they pushed their mounts. Silver and crimson chainmail shined in the bright sun. Lances tipped with red pennants reached for the thin white clouds. Above all a flag, a mailed fist of crimson on a snow white field fluttered beside Prince Galen Trollbane.

"…Trol'kalar beckons before us!" Alistair heard.

The ancient weapon of the Trollbanes, the kings of Stromgarde, had been stolen. It was their holy mission to retrieve it. At the head of the questing knight's column was Galen Trollbane, the heir of the last king, Thoras. A full head of sandy brown hair blew back in the wind. Alistair could not see the Prince's face, but he knew it was filled with determination. Just the thought of the young Trollbane's conviction settled Alistair's ever troubling thoughts about the future of their nation.

The Scourge had sacked the chief city of Strom and wreaking havoc through the countryside during the latter days of the Third War. King Thoras was assassinated and the nobles with their scattered agendas flew to the four winds. The vacuum appeared so quickly that Galen hadn't even had time to be crowned. The country had nearly fallen, and only Galen's will held what little was left together.

The group made camp near the ruins of a small town called Hillock Hamlet, about a mile off the Iron Road. It too had been ravaged by the Scourge three years past and then utterly ruined in the strife that had ensued following King Trollbane's death.

The moon had climbed into the sky, peeking just above the mountains. The winds had calmed, but cool breezes still swept their camp, slanting the small fire they'd lit in a dug out hole. Galen gathered his men about him.

"The thieves will not be far off. We begin again before first light. Hopefully we can catch them unawares." The Prince spoke in a subdued voice, the firelight flickering shadows off his rough face.

"Sire, we lost their trail today and no hound can keep up with our pace." One of the knights, a noble's son, reminded him.

"They are not gods, Padril. They are undead scoundrels. They shan't be far off. They've been taking predictable patterns of movement, so tomorrow we will catch them before they reach Thoradin's Wall. We _must." _Galen slammed his gauntlet into unarmored palm.

"Aye, but—" As another cavalier began to speak, Alistair held out his hand. He felt a twinge, heard a noise, saw a shadow.

"We are being watched." The knight whispered. Before the knight could even turn, hissing filled the air. Arrows fell about the armored group, screeching through metal and thudding through flesh.

Alistair raised his shield which had been slung over his shoulder. The wood seemed to explode as he brought it up to his face, three arrowheads trying to squirm through. They were slick with poison. The world lurched, and Alistair lost his balance. He saw the horses burst into frenzy as the arrows descended on them too. His own mount, Igneaus, squealed as one pierced its eye.

Several other warriors had already been felled. He saw the fiery haired Lord Hailes Braddock clutching his breast where one of the missiles had struck, face twisted in agony. Sir Wallace Rosehart lay lifeless, his rose embroidered tabard fittingly colored red with blood.

"For Strom!" "Thoras!" War cries took flight. Alistair looked up to the hills. It had been a trap. Forsaken, the faction of the undead that had aligned itself with the Horde, had crested the mounds, some continuing to pour arrows upon their targets while others raced downward intent on hacking apart the remnant of the armored column. Beside them slinked blue skinned island trolls and thundering orcs on wargs.

"To me! Warriors of Stromgarde, to me!" Galen Trollbane called out above the din of battle. Alistair leapt to his feet and ran to his Prince. A small knot of warriors had gathered around the young Trollbane, whose noble black sable cloak was already matted with blood. Alistair saw the Prince pointing to the hills. He and several retainers rushed forward, scaling the grassy knoll toward the bowmen. They were met with a new wave of attackers.

Alistair ran toward them, but one of the walking corpses stepped into his path. Whoever he was in life, he must've been a fearsome warrior. He stood a head taller than Alistair, who was tall among Stromgardians, and well muscled. He did not seem to have died long ago, but his cause of mortality was apparent. A gruesome horned helm hid most of the damage, but it looked as if an axe had taken its due course through his head, cleaving off the nose and an eye.

"Have at your dance then!" Alistair goaded, unsheathing a long, steel blade that glittered in the moonlight. A knight was his lance, and his armor, dagger, sword, and honor. He took pride in this weapon especially, polishing it whenever the chance presented itself.

Alistair moved forward, stabbing at the forsaken's stomach as a fencer would, quickly switching to a swift uppercut. The sword dug lightly into the undead barbarian's lifeless chin flesh, vibrating as it hit bone. Alistair's dueling partner swung a vicious maul at his ribs, but the knight danced backwards, grasped his sword with the other hand, and brought it down on his enemy's elbow. Bone and flesh ruptured violently across the cobblestones as sword amputating both arms. Pulling his weapon in, the knight finished his personal battle with a quick strike to the neck, almost severing his opponent's head. Blood, purple from slow decay and hastily prepared embalming fluid splattered upward.

Alistair almost gagged at the smell that came with his victory but ignored the instinct. White pain sliced through his skull and a cracking noise accompanied it. Hot blood poured down the right side of Alistair's face, but the knight stayed standing. He could not tell what hit him, raising his shield above his head. Another, savage blow came from the side, this time fully crushing his shield and biting through his vambrace. The knight howled in pain, but stayed standing. Out of the corner of his left eye's vision, he saw his Prince surrounded. Six swords fell up and down around him as his last companion fell.

"Prince Trollbane!" Alistair called out, his voice hoarse. He tried to run toward his liege, but his legs gave out as the world swam dizzily from his blood loss. The Prince fought gallantly, slicing off fingers and arms that approached him. Suddenly, his chest burst outward, blood and viscera staining the grass before him. A spear had struck home.

Alistair cried out, his legs not working. The Prince stood tall and haughty for a moment, unbelieving of his fate and bloody as the day he was born. Another blade approached. The Prince moved to intercept it with his own, but he found no strength left in his body. The forsaken's sword wove deep into Galen's arm, forcing the Prince to the ground.

Alistair could not find his voice any longer. He had risen to his knees, but another strike crushed his ribs and tore open his side. The knight fell to the ground, watching as the forsaken fell upon his remaining comrades. He noticed his gut seeping from the terrible wound to his side. The world was going dark, and Alistair knew he had failed in his utmost task. A single thought echoed in his mind as he saw one last glimpse of Prince Galen Trollbane's lifeless form.

_There is no hope for Stromgarde. _

Author's Bullet: Hey all! It's been a long time since I last published or wrote anything for but I'm excited, recharged, and gunning to get this new tale on the road. This story is a sequel to both 'The Third War' and 'War of the Ruins', of which major characters such as Osra Leone and Alaric'Quel star.

The story will follow a little bit of a different format than my previous works. It will be a deeper, more personal story following fewer characters than usual. You'll still recognize the same style of epic battles, emotional narratives, and thrilling conclusions that were in both TTW and WotR.

The timeline for this story is set during the World of Warcraft: Wrath of the Lich King. The story kicks off about 4-6 months after the beginning of Wrath of the Lich King and will continue from there.

Thanks for helping me started in this new endeavor. I think I'm more excited for this story than I've been for any others I've written, so I hope that excitement bleeds over into you all as well.

If you read and have a FF account, please do drop me a review! Flames, praise, criticism all help motivate me and get me writing faster.

Here's to hearing from you all soon. I hope you enjoy reading this new saga as much as I have in writing it.

-Omegatrooper


	2. Chapter 1: Fated Encounter

**Chapter 1: Fated Encounter**

The rain dripped drearily from heaven unto earth. Grey skies extended to the horizon, but bands of dim morning light shone through here and there. Gaunt trees stood pale in the light, reaching desperately for more water and sun. Their small realm stretched from the southern hills to the northern plains.

A shadow staggered between the bleached trees. He sought a moment's rest and refuge, but knew better than to let up. If he stopped, he knew, he might simply just give up. Looking back at his pursuers, they appeared as apparitions in the dying mist.

"The bastard elf can run." A gravelly voice shouted in frustration. Other voices agreed in unison, but one that sounded like silk over soft water objected. The fugitive could not make out what she said. It mattered not.

For weeks he'd run through the forests and dark places in a vain effort to escape his pursuers. Miles were eaten in the cover of darkness and in the light, when the enemies came, he fought for his life, scratching and clawing for another breath of air. Torch lights appeared in front of him. He'd been cornered. Three of them in front of him were hideous, rotting mockeries. These lumbering corpses had once been vibrant people with their own worries, joys, and black secrets. Now they were but shades; they were the undead whom he'd come to revile so much.

Each of his would-be captors wore rotting and sour stinking clothes under leather jerkins. Two held crude maces which were little more than clubs with metal spikes affixed to their ends. The third hefted a circular buckler of banged and nicked wood strapped to what was left of his forearm and a short sword with tarnish staining its length. Each held a torch which they threw to the ground as they spied their target.

"You're gonna' come with us." The sword bearer spat, his revolting features twisting as he spoke. His teeth showed through a hole in his rotting cheek. The trio closed in as the voices from behind fast approached.

"You can try." The fugitive replied, scowling. His face was dirty and covered in cuts. A pink scar snaked its way from his forehead through his temple to where an absent earlobe should have resided.

The forsaken troop leader began advancing from the front toward his target. The two cronies moved off to the sides and flanked. Their target immediately broke into a dash, doubling back instantly to smash his body into one of the flankers. The two fell to the ground together, but as they did the elf grasped the undead flesh in his hands and with a satisfying _crack_ the forsaken's neck was snapped in two.

The elf picked up the mace at his feet before the sword tip could pierce his chest. The slain body on the ground caught the blow, putrid blood and embalming fluid spraying. Parrying with the crude weapon, the elf fought off the sword until the other forsaken ran at him from the side once more. The elf lowered his body and delivered a vicious kick to his flanker's face. He could feel weakened, flimsy bones breaking under his steel tipped boot.

The swordsman tried to bash at him with the shield, but the elf deftly swung his body sideways, reducing the target space, and grabbed the sword bearing wrist of his attacker. The elf swung the mace, twisting his hips so that his entire body's weight was behind the blow. For a moment the two locked eyes, the forsaken swordsman stunned. He fell in a heap, skull caved in and brain stem severed.

"Alaric'Quel, toss the weapon aside." The silky voice spoke severely.

Alaric turned slowly, coming face to face with a leafblade, its shimmering metal surface exquisitely worked, rippling where its alloys had been folded over thousands of times. Behind the blade was a beautiful elven female. A cascade of blonde hair tumbled gently from her head, framing her oval face. Her eyes…her eyes held emotion in them. Not contempt, no. It was more a thin reluctance.

She wore the garb of a ranger and a blood elf: a dark green cloak with leaves sewn into the fringe, brown enameled greaves and boots with thick leather soles that hushed the sound of the wearer's weight, a wide girdle engraved with wildflowers that protected the waist and private areas, as well as boiled leathers under a coat of mail colored with various hues of dull reds like autumn trees.

"Traitor." Alaric hissed through his teeth. He began to feel the pain from his wound again, the adrenaline in his veins at last running dry.

"We are here!" The huntress cried out to her other forsaken allies. "I have him!"

"Do you?" Alaric goaded. The blade touched his throat, beading blood from it.

"Why did you do it?" The question was simple.

"I asked that question to Lor'themar Theron once. Do you know his answer?"

"What are you talking about?" The bewildered blood elf asked.

"My people…my own people turned their backs on those they'd fought beside for thousands of years to join our antithesis, the trolls. To join the orcs that burned our forests. To join the _undead _who raped our land and erased our civilization! You feel the discomfort in your heart, but you ignore it."

"You do not understand, Alaric. Garithos had been but a morsel. If we'd remained in their yoke, we would have perished. The humans would have finished the job the Scourge began."

Alaric could not help but laugh. He would have laughed longer had the wound in his gut not pierced his mirth.

"I had a feeling that your ears will be unreceptive." His laughter turned to seething hatred. She would not listen. None of them had. They'd all been indoctrinated with the foolishness of Lor'themar for years. The magical addiction hadn't helped.

"The Alliance deserves your scorn. Not us. You were not here to see what happened after the War." The elven huntress continued, attempting to dislodge Alaric's opinion.

The two other forsaken troops appeared from the abating mist, surrounding him. Their arrival brought the stench of decaying flesh back into his nostrils. One of them moved to his rear, disarming him of his mace. He looked around. Rhyme trees and evergreens surrounded the unhappy meeting, and the caverns where Alaric had hoped to find some refuge were still far off. Something caught his eye though; a conspicuous pile of leaves some ten feet from them; a glint of metal. He smirked.

"By Ranger General Brightwing's order unless you repent for your accounts of murder, and present yourself before the Regent for verdict, I am to execute you on the spot of capture. Will you not think about this, Lord Alaric?" The elven beauty said, nearly begging.

Alaric stood still, head raised high, ignoring the plea.

"Then I have no choice. Have you any final words?" His huntress said with resignation. Her blade hand was steady and the look in her eyes resolute. Regardless of her respect for him, her convictions were true. She would do it. The sun had begun to beat through the clouds, its lances of gold shining down from the heavens.

"So you _are_ curious for words? Would you like to hear a story?" Alaric's grim smile remained.

"Very well." The elven huntress said, disappointed. The sword lifted slightly, preparing to cut through his neck. Alaric hung his head and closed his eyes, knowing what was about to happen.

Metal flashed twice, the sun's reflection making it look like rays of light cutting through flesh itself. The two forsaken toppled, headless. The elven hunter, surprised, turn to meet the attacker. Alaric opened his eyes and reached for the dagger in his grey cloak. Leaves fell around the trio slowly, the world moving in heartbeats.

His huntress caught a blow from a blade held by a lightly armored figure whose face was obscured behind a façade of dark hair. Her elvish leafblade chipped into the attacker's metal, sending a crack racing through the blade's body. She kicked the attacker who stumbled into a tree, mouth bloody. The ranger huntress clasped her blade with both hands, about to finish the surprise attacker.

Then, Alaric stepped forward, clasping the neck of the ranger between his bicep and forearm. He rammed the dagger home, driving it through the beauty's shoulder blade and into her heart. She gasped, her head falling back on his shoulder. For a moment he held her weight against him. Her green eyes, still alive, searched for his face. He slowly turned his head to look at her, but an inch from her face.

"You should have listened to my story." Alaric whispered. A thin stream of blood ran from her nose and mouth as the light in her eyes went out. He contracted his arm, twisting her neck, and stepped away, letting her body fall to the ground. He would at least give her the mercy of not allowing the undead to resurrect her.

Alaric's rescuer rolled forward onto knees and elbows, slowly rising with heaving cough attributed to the kick to the chest by the ranger. Alaric realized that his savior was a young woman. A muss of burnt umber colored hair dropped to just below her shoulders. Alaric noticed however, for a human, she had striking and full azure eyes. Those alone made her stand out.

"Your name?" Alaric asked brusquely. For an instant she studied him and he her, warily.

"Osra Leone." She replied flatly, combing leaves out of her hair with her fingers. Her cloak was black and dotted with mud. Simple brown plate pauldrons too large for a woman adorned her shoulders, but her hauberk was white, and polished, Alaric noticed. She took pride in it, obviously. In its center was carved a golden sunburst. He knew not the symbol. She also had a strip of cloth wrapped around her right arm, a feral and rampant dog still visible through the grime that had covered it. It might have once been part of a flag or tabard. Alaric deduced that from the fact that she hadn't maintained it, she wanted it to remain as it was. She was holding onto it as a piece of the past, a reminder. Her face was an oval, soft and gentle, but small creases were worn in her forehead from the hardness of the world.

"I thank you for dispatching those two." He looked at the headless bodies of the forsaken who'd chased him so far. "That one was Darius, and he Garril. I've somewhat gotten to know them. They chased me for quite a time."

"And who was she?" Osra asked, pointing to the dead elf.

"A traitor and hypocrite like all my people." Alaric remarked, picking up the leafblade and testing its balance.

"How did you know I was in the leaves?"

"Piles of leaves do not commonly gather with polished metal in them." Alaric remarked, turning west.

"Ah." A brief pause as Osra sheathed her bastard sword. "The rain has stopped. We should move before the sun rises any further. More forsaken will be after us soon enough."

"We?"

Looking up from the dead elf's body, Osra replied with a sly smile "I for one want to hear this story of yours, elf."

"Very well." Alaric consented. "Come now, I know of a wonderful castle with all the amenities we will need." He kept a hand on his blood stained dagger, just in case. The sun rising, the clouds clearing, the two set off, crossing under the trees of Lordaeron toward refuge.

Cold weather had emerged from the east with the rain from the previous day. Howling, freezing winds soaked Alaric and Osra to the bone. Neither spoke as they made their way west into the unknown. The elf's long ears twitched any time he heard a suspicious noise. The hard years had taught him to be on guard, even against those who might present themselves friends. The wind also flew from the tops of the mountains against them, making it easier for trackers to pick up their scent. Hence, he urged Osra to keep up to his breakneck pace and jog beside or before him.

Alaric refused to slow the pace, but surprisingly the girl did not complain, even if she was not as conditioned as he. In the Plaguelands, anything was dangerous. The two pressed on, and the distant peaks grew closer and more detailed. Snow capped their tall crowns. The vegetation grew more mundane as well, the plague not spreading in full force at the higher, rockier altitudes.

It was only after the first moon had climbed well into the sky did they arrive. Thankfully nothing had emerged from the dark and corrupted wood to slow their arrival. The Shinecap Mountains lurched in front of them, a bit further still. Great limestone cliffs hung on the sides of the river Averass which descended from Shinecap itself, the greatest mountain for which the range was named.

"We are here." Alaric said plainly, selecting a cave at random. As they entered, Osra seemed disappointed.

"A beautiful castle." She muttered, collapsing and slumping against the wall of the cave. Alaric remained at the entrance for a few moments, surveying the area. His elf-eyes took in more light than a human's, and with the moonlight shining off the river; he had no trouble scanning the surrounding area. Satisfied, he returned to find that the woman had started a small fire with the twigs and scrabble on the cave floor. She held her small hands over the fire to give them warmth. The elf noticed several scars crisscrossing on her arms. She had been fighting for some time. He sat opposite of her, staring suspiciously.

He spoke to break the silence. "Why are you here?"

"My mission was to report the Scourge's movements in the area. Since the invasion of Northrend many of the undead legions have pulled back and fortified their positions." She explained. Alaric knew not of this Argent Dawn, but kept his mouth shut.

"It was to my surprise though that I found a party of forsaken with a blood elf in their midst trailing someone. I tracked them for some time." Osra continued. "I decided to try and overtake them, and when I did, I was lucky enough to encounter both you and them."

"I overheard them speak your name. What happened? You disappeared after the invasion of Northrend. Are you truly Alaric Faltron'Quel, the hero? People tell stories of you in the south. The last true elf they call you." She asked softly, the light and shadows from the fire licking at her face.

"I am he, but I am no hero. There is no such thing, little girl." Alaric said bitterly.

"I knew a hero once; a real one." Osra retorted angrily.

"I am sure this person is dead then."

Osra said nothing, her head falling between her arms, chin at breast. Alaric snorted. He knew not whether she was angered or saddened by the comment, her dark hair hiding her soft face. He felt no twang of guilt, only the remorse of sad reality. Even though she had obviously suffered, lost loved ones, and fought through the pain of wounds, she had still not fully grown up. He felt an old feeling nagging at him though. He remembered not what it was, but it compelled him to speak.

"You wished to hear my story."

Osra lifted her head slightly, resting it on her arms as they in turn rested upon her knees. Her blue eyes shone from between her strands hair. They were desirous for the truth. He struggled to find a starting point. It had been a long time since he'd conversed amicably with someone, and even longer since he'd shared his past. The world had changed so much in so little time, and with it, he had as well.

"I was always called brash. Looking to the past I can see that is true on most accounts. I served in the Second and Third Wars. I fought my share of battles but decided it wasn't enough. A man of appetites, I made my own war. The War of the Ruins they call it. I fought that to take back our home of Quel'thalas and finish Arthas to make sure the Scourge could never threaten my people again."

"We almost succeeded. We took back Quel'thalas and I stood toe to toe with the Lich King himself, but he was too much. I was defeated and decided to reunite our people. Many thousands of blood elves traveled to Outland with our rightful king, so I would bring them back. When I got there I was rudely surprised to find that not only did they not want to come back, but that they weren't the same brothers and sisters that had left us. They'd—changed—for the worse. When I returned to Azeroth, I found that my people here too had thrown away their pride and honor, betraying their traditions and heritage. They decided to throw it all away to join the Horde. In the end I fought for nothing." The elf explained passively.

The cave grew quiet for a long minute. At last Osra looked up.

"You sound as if you feel nothing." She said sadly.

"Sometimes I feel nothing. Sometimes I feel it all at once." The reply came monotonously.

"I am to return to Light's Hope Chapel on the morrow. It is the Argent Dawn's base of operations in the Eastern Plaguelands and not a day's march from the base of the mountains. If you wish a meal and a night not spent in a cave then you ought to accompany me. The Argent Dawn always welcomes _heroes_." Osra emphasized the word. Despite what the elf thought, she knew a hero when she saw one.

"I won't fight for your paltry group. I have my own goals and promises to honor, but a roof would be decidedly welcome." Alaric said after a few moments of consideration. He knew not what this Argent Dawn was, but a safe haven, a place to rest up, would a wonderful thing. "I'll take first watch." The elf stood, wrapping his cloak around him at the entrance of the cave.

"I get the idea that you are not telling me the whole tale, Alaric'Quel." Osra's blue eyes and voice were still peppered with curiosity.

"If you live long enough, perhaps you'll hear it all." He called back, his body silhouetted by the moon's shine.

"That I intend to do." Osra said quietly.

Character Bio: Osra Leone

She has always been a strong willed woman, both pretty and deadly. Dark hair falls to her shoulders with bright blue eyes punctuating long bangs. She stands at a height of 5'6.

Born near the Alterac-Lordaeron border, Osra grew up in a small farming community centered on the town of Renne. As a child, Osra had two older brothers, both of whom served time in the Alliance's Provisional Alterac Guard. The tomboyish Osra learned the basics of swordsmanship from them at a young age, and continued her hobby by seeking out various veterans on her spare time when she was not working the fields.

When the Third War began, both her brothers were called up to duty once more and went missing after the fall of the capital of Lordegarde. The Scourge ravaged Renne and her parents were both killed. She safeguarded the survivors of her town until they were rescued by the Dogs of War, a semi-autonomous force formed during the Third War by remnants of Alliance armies by Valdar Justax.

Osra fell in love with Justax, but things would not turn out well for their relationship. After the retaking of Dalaran, she ventured north into the Plaguelands to continue fighting.

Factoid: The Light's Calendar

The calendar used in this tale is the Light's Calendar which was used in the Warcraft strategy games, not the official World of Warcraft timelines. All dates are correctly calculated between the timelines however.

The current function replaced that of the Arathi Calendar which was used from the formation of the Arathi Empire some 2,500 years ago. The dating begins at the Year 0, in which the Church of the Light had officially spread to all corners of the Eastern Kingdoms. At this point, all seven human nations, the dwarves of Ironforge, and the high elves of Quel'thalas had all converted to the teachings of the Church.

The year consists of twelve 30 day months, with a five day time period in between years known as the 'Interregnum'.

The current year is 625.


	3. Chapter 2: Vagabond

**Chapter 2: Vagabond**

The elf thrashed in his sleep. He had long scars on his wrists, as if he'd fought against manacles for quite some time. Osra wondered what Alaric'Quel seen in his days. She looked back for a moment to see him violently reach out with a fist, banging it into the stone wall. He woke with a start, groaning at the pain. Osra turned her head to survey the cave entrance once more, if only to hide a giggle. He was a strange one.

"We had best be moving soon. The sun will rise within the hour. I want to reach Light's Hope Chapel by midday if possible." She said.

"Yes, best we move before the sun rises. I don't want to pain my eyes leaving this cave into sudden light." The elf groggily sat up. He strapped his dagger and the leafblade he'd scavenged the day before onto his leather belt. His blonde hair fell behind him straight as if he'd just washed it clean. Osra was envious for a moment. Her own hair was a tangled mess from the extended ranging.

The diseased woodland returned as Alaric and Osra descended from the mountainside the next morning. The two moved quickly through the tall trees that once made up Lordaeron's majestic deciduous eastern forests. The female warrior followed the markers she recognized. Long had her position in the Argent Dawn been to scout this forest for Scourge movements. She knew it like the back of her hand.

Osra was still in shock of her find yesterday. The long missing Alaric'Faltron Quel; one of the last scions of Sunstrider blood, the Champion of Quel'thalas, the Alliance's Lion General during the War of the Ruins, a fearsome warrior with an unparalleled hatred of the undead, and a master mage of unfathomable power.

He'd instigated the War of the Ruins after an expedition to Kalimdor to retrieve magical artifacts. He then set a warpath through the heart of Lordaeron, even retaking the heartlands of Quel'thalas. Afterwards, he had even invaded Northrend and it was rumored that he'd dueled Arthas himself. As quickly as the Alliance's greatest hero had arisen, he had disappeared after the invasion of Northrend. Tall tales were told throughout the lands of the fate of Alaric'Quel, but she'd found him exhausted and on the run.

_I always invisioned him different_, Osra thought. _I thought he'd be larger than life, but he seems so _real_…just like Valdar Justax._

The two unlikely companions passed a gutted town, the blacked skeletons of burned out buildings half overgrown with purple vines and unnaturally large, splotchy mushrooms. The Scourge had done more than kill the living in its time upon the earth. It blighted and transformed the land itself. Only two years ago this land had thick carpets of rich, green grass growing on it. Those vines had been healthy ivy, simply conquering what humans no longer up kept. Now they were poisonous, hateful things.

She avoided the graveyard, opting for the longer route. There was no telling what might appear from that place, even without necromancers, liches, and death knights around. They passed under a statue of an ancient hero placed in what was once a meadow. The bright bronze it had once shone was now tainted green by the air and water.

By the time the sun had risen into the sky, almost directly above them, Osra knew they had almost arrived. A quick running stream carrying clear, fresh water from the snowmelt in the mountains lay before them. Beyond it not far out was the base of the Argent Dawn in the Eastern Plaguelands; Light's Hope Chapel itself.

"Feel free to drink from it while you can. Another few months and the corruption will spread further south, infecting the soils at the head of this stream. For now it helps supply the Argent Crusade and Dawn with much of our water."

"First it's the Argent Dawn, now the Argent Crusade. Just exactly is this…thing?"

"You don't know of the Argent Dawn? How long have you been in the Plaguelands?"

"A few months, running and hiding in caves mostly."

"Ah…it's difficult to explain. I suppose this will be a story to fill the rest of our journey." The blue-eyed warrior climbed over a fallen log.

"Sing your song then, bard." Alaric said wryly. Osra glared at him. "I jest. Continue."

"As you know, after the end of the Third War, there were pockets of resistance. One such group made up of the surviving paladins of the Knights of the Silver Hand, gained a massive following among the survivors of Lordaeron and the other nations. Thousands streamed north to join." Osra explained.

"Yes, I remember such. They were led by the flame-haired Alexandros Mograine, a man I admired very much for his skill in killing undead." Alaric recalled. Before Mograine even unsheathed his legendary blade, the Ashbringer, hundreds of the damned would be turned to dust by his aura alone.

"Mograine the Ashbringer died, but like a phoenix to his will, the Scarlet Crusade grew out of his following. The Scarlet Crusade fought long and well. They retook Hearthglen, garrisoned Tyr's Hand, militarized the eastern beaches of Lordaeron, and even reclaimed half of Stratholme. But there was always something wrong with the Crusade."

"They preached extreme xenophobia and religious intolerance, and it only got worse as the years passed. That was probably why they never joined your forces when you marched north in the War of the Ruins. They don't like you. You're an elf."

Alaric touched his long ears. "Why, you are perceptive."

Osra ignored the jape and continued. "Something was also happening within the leadership of the organization. Slowly may of the high ranking officers actions and commands were becoming…distressing. There were fatal floggings for trivial slips in conduct, suicidal assaults on Scourge strongholds...eventually it resulted in the slaughter of all non-humans in the organization as a direct order set down by the supreme leader, Grand Crusader Saidan Dathrohan. It was a move totally against what the Crusade had once stood for."

"The 'purge' prompted those in the Scarlet Crusade that were disturbed by the recent trend of corruption to break away and form their own organization; the Argent Dawn. We are the only true brotherhood focused on protecting Azeroth from those agencies that wish to destroy it, namely the Scourge and Burning Legion. We accept all those whom fight for our cause."

"It seems that you carry a noble motive." Alaric said, nodding as he slogged through the stream.

"I am glad you approve."

"Do they teach this whole history when you join the Argent Dawn?" The elf asked.

"No. I saw it happen with my own eyes. After the end of the Third War I joined the Crusade." Osra said, feeling ashamed.

The things she'd seen and let happen there…sometimes she felt like she would never forgive herself. She knew Valdar wouldn't have forgiven her. She shook her head. This was no time for self-pity. They had almost reached their destination.

"In any case," Osra continued "when the war against the Lich King began, Lord Tirion Fordring took a large contingent of the Dawn with him to Northrend. They call themselves the Argent Crusade."

A hill with a rocky crown stood before them. Behind them in the distance the mountains reliably loomed. Wispy clouds gathered around their peaks, tinged orange with the particulates in the air. The ground was suddenly trembling slightly. Alaric stopped in his tracks.

"Cavalry. They're ours." Osra stated.

Three horsemen appeared atop the hill, silhouetted in the sunlight. One of the horses neighed and pulled back onto its hind legs. They slowly made their way toward the two travelers, their gleaming armor coming into sight. Each bore the same sunburst-on-silver breastplates that Osra had. Silver roundels shielded the weak points of their armor, and beneath it all were shirts of black chainmail.

"What is your purpose in the realm of the Dawn." One cavalryman said, his voice slightly muffled by a fearsome wolf-headed helm. A heavy sable cloak fell behind his head. Thick armor plates sat on his shoulders and legs. Equally barded was his muscled war steed.

"I am a part of a whole, an arm that defends Azeroth and its realms. I am the servant of truth and a companion of justice. From me flows the will to judge the wicked and shield the weak. I fight for the new morning." Osra recited the words of the Argent Dawn.

"Aye, welcome back, Leone." The horseman said, lifting his visor to reveal a smile that was missing a few teeth. His face was lined with deep crags and crevices.

"It is always good to return from a ranging, Harryl." Osra returned the smile. "This is Alaric'Faltron Quel, a brave warrior and friend of the Alliance. He comes seeking refuge."

"I am surprised to see the same Alaric'Quel of the stories before me. I thought you were dead." Harryl sized up Alaric. "If you vouch for him, then I am sure he will be a fine addition."

The elf bristled. "I come not to join you. I have my own reasons. I seek only a night's rest before I am off."

"We shall see, good elf. The Lord Commander's words are usually quite convincing." Harryl laughed, planting his lance in the ground. "You and Osra may pass. May the Light shine on you both."

"And you, Harryl." Osra replied, leading Alaric past the pickets. The horsemen turned their mounts and continued on their patrol, riding hard toward the ruined town of Ten Bridges that lay in the distance. As Osra and Alaric crested the hill, Light's Hope Chapel came into view.

The actual chapel itself, a rather dilapidated, old looking building, occupied another hill a mile away. Panels of wood were missing from the walls, and the roof was missing half its tiles. Behind it were quarries dug into the mountains. The stone provided by those quarries was thrown up into thick walls with alternating sets of watchtowers and crowned turrets. The walls themselves were incomplete, with great gaps in them and no gateway.

A few squat, stone buildings were scattered about the area, with many tents of all sizes filling in the lanes between. Everywhere there flew banners of black, and silver, and gold. Soldiers passed through the crude dirt roads and peasantry, refugees from old Lordaeron, tilled the small, fallow fields. The small city around Light's Hope Chapel was the second largest base of the living in the Eastern Plaguelands, after the Scarlet Crusade held Tyr's Hand.

Osra felt as if she were home. She looked on with pride in her heart, turning to see the look on her elf companion's face. She was met with a plain look of neutrality. Either he truly was a dispassionate bastard, or he hid those emotions well. Disappointed, Osra continued forward into the heart of the encampment. The two wound through the narrow roads and up the hill.

Osra avoided large crowds. She knew Alaric's reputation with the Horde was not a savory one. His expedition through Kalimdor had not been friendly to the members of the Horde, particularly the orcs and tauren.

Here there were members of Horde affiliated races, namely the bull-like tauren, working with the Argent Dawn. They usually gathered by themselves in the opposite corner of the small city, but there was no knowing what would happen if they saw him, or he them.

"Light's Hope Chapel watches over its children." Osra said, guiding them up the slope to a long set of dusty stairs. The elf wouldn't expect her to take him straight to the leaders of the Argent Dawn here.

_He most likely has valuable knowledge on the Scourge's positions in the Plaguelands. Even if he doesn't, a man of his power and influence is desperately needed, _she thought. She knew that the elf already knew what she was up to. Hopefully she or Lord Commander Tyrosus would be able to convince him to join their cause. The Light knew they needed the help.

The Argent Dawn was not a very large organization. Their strongest base of operations here at Light's Hope Chapel only had about 1,500 swords when fully mustered. In comparison, the Scarlet Crusade's stronghold of Tyr's Hand had over 10,000 souls ready to fight at one point before the death knights of Acherus had burned it to the ground.

_Much good their numbers did them_, Osra said to herself. The Scarlet Crusade had been dealt a number of deathblows in the past six months. The disastrous fall of Tyr's Hand was only the latest. Ever since the great city's burning, a looming sense of doom had fallen over the warriors of the Argent Dawn, even after the incredible victory in the Battle of Light's Hope Chapel.

"…just because Lord Fordring and Eligor the Dawnbringer took half of our forces and most of the paladins to Northrend for the Argent Crusade doesn't mean that the Scourge won't strike at us again! We must hold fast here." Osra heard voices arguing. They were at it again. The leaders of the Argent Dawn squabbling at what to do next.

"You are a fool! The Horde and Alliance offensive in Northrend holds the Scourge at bay for the moment. We should assemble ourselves and strike now! There might never be such a chance again." Another raspy voice spoke up.

"If we march out and are surrounded by the undead in the open fields, we will surely be cut to pieces." The first reacted. "They outnumber us a thousand to one."

"I like not those odds." Someone else said.

"This is the problem with having so little structure in the chain of command…no one to give proper commands." She muttered. Osra threw out her hands, opening the doors in a rather dramatic fashion. Light poured into the central chamber of the church revealing numerous high ranking members of the Dawn's Eastern Plaguelands forces gathered around a table matted with crusty, old maps.

There was eye-patched Lord Maxwell Tyrosus dressed in a simple doublet. Field Marshal Even Chambers garbed in his massive battle armor poured over the maps, his usually shaved head bristling with new growth.

The beautiful ambassador from the Scarlet Crusade, Elise Marjhan, stood next to her counterpart for the Dawn, the handsome Sir Duncan Boldstrider. Behind the crowd the Argent Dawn's soft-spoken archmage, Teresa Fireweaver observed the meeting.

"My Lords and Ladies, I bring—" She froze as she surveyed the room.

Leonid Bartholomew met her eyes with his. They were whitish with the stalled decay of the Forsaken, and his blue-grey skin hung loosely from yellow bones, some of which were visible through the unhealed wounds of battle across his ribs and legs. Strapped to his back was his famed claymore, 'Death's End'. He had once been a mighty warrior of Lordaeron, but had fallen and been revived by the Scourge. After the Forsaken were formed, Leonid was 'awakened from his slumber', as he put it. Distrusting the Banshee Queen, Sylvanas Windrunner, and the Forsaken's motives, he'd left them to join the Argent Dawn nearly a year ago.

Osra looked back at Alaric, holding her arms out to prevent him from entering the room. She hadn't expected Leonid Bartholomew to be here. He was supposed to be on a mission to scout the remains of Northdale. It was too late though. The elf had already seen into the chamber.

Rage filled Alaric's eyes and his face twisted into a dark scowl. He pushed aside Osra with a strength she didn't think he had. With a ragged yell, Alaric'Quel jumped forward, drawing his leafblade in midair. He landed on top of the map table amidst all the commanders, swinging downward at the Forsaken warrior.

Leonid instinctively drew Death's End, the air around the weapon shimmering like a mirage. The two blades met in a shower of sparks that danced off the floor and table. The sound of scraping metal on metal filled the room. The deadlock broke quickly, Leonid backing up as Alaric's leafblade screeched upward then down in a wide arc.

"I see a ghost of the past." Bartholomew whispered audibly. "I thought you long dead."

"You'll die twice before the grave takes me." Alaric answered, veins standing out in his temples.

"Alaric, stop this!" Osra shouted out. The words did not reach him. She tried to move closer but was blocked by the massive bulk of the Field Marshal.

"Guards! Seize and bind him!" Maxwell Tyrosus shouted. His face was red with anger.

Even Chambers unleashed his battle axe, crushing the table the elf stood upon. A shower of splinters flew across the room. Alaric jumped up, grasping the chandelier with a single hand while warding off Chambers' attacks with his sword hand. He twisted and landed, parrying a hit from the undead soldier. Alaric danced away from Field Marshal Chambers' battle axe, advancing on Bartholomew with a flurry of strikes.

Suddenly he was caught between two storms; Bartholomew countered, going on the offensive. Behind Alaric Chambers swung again. Alaric ducked beneath both their blows, changing his footwork every second. He began to spin a hurricane of his own, twisting and twirling away from the weapons falling all about him.

Argent Dawn soldiers burst through the doors, filling the room. They found themselves unable to restrain the elf however. He'd moved in such a way as to position their own man, Chambers, between them and himself, with Bartholomew on the other side of him. The elf drew his dagger with his off-hand. Two weapons, pointed at two enemies. There was a momentary lull.

"Why do you not use your magic, Alaric'Quel? The tales tell of you being a master of the arcane arts." Bartholomew said. His voice sounded like silky death.

"Why would I need to use magic to defeat you?" Alaric quipped.

"It would seem you need all the help you can get." Even Chambers at last spoke, his tones deep and bass. Alaric frowned as he looked about the room quickly.

"I've faced worse."

"He cannot use his magic. I don't know how…" The archmage Teresa said softly. "It feels like he's a void in the field of magic itself. Something has torn him from the Ley-energies."

"Alaric!" Osra shouted. "Enough! Leonid Bartholomew is one of us! He's joined the Argent Dawn and proven himself time and time again. I told you the Argent Dawn takes all manners of people as long as they are willing to give up their old affiliations to fight those that threaten the world!"

"How can you be _friends _with this thing?" Alaric spat, glaring at Leonid Bartholomew. "All undead are the same; Scourge, Forsaken…they all want the same thing. They want us to be like them. They're unnatural abominations that deserve to be snuffed out forever."

"Lay down your weapon. This is your last chance, boy." Maxwell Tyrosus stated with his strong voice.

"Please! We need you! Azeroth needs you!" Osra pleaded.

"I'd rather die than side with even one member of the undead." The elf said.

Suddenly Leonid Bartholomew struck. Even Chambers attacked as well. Alaric barely blocked both of their weapons. He fell to a knee under their pressure.

Teresa Fireweaver stepped forth, her staff pointing at her target. Alaric's eyes opened wide just before the mage fired a bolt of magic, filling the room with white light for a split second. The elf fell to the ground, stunned and unable to move.

"How peculiar…I'd like a chance to study his—unique case, if it pleases you, Lord Tyrosus. I've never seen such a strange situation as this. He was entirely cut off from the magical flows of the world." Teresa said, voice distant with curiosity.

"It does not." The Lord Commander of Light's Hope Chapel sighed, blowing his drooping mustachios out of his mouth. "Clap him in irons and take him to the dungeons. I will deal with this later."

"My apologies, Lord Commander." Osra said, falling to her knee. "I did not think he would react so badly."

"What troubles have you brought us now, Osra." Tyrosus turned to survey the damage as his guardsmen dragged the unconscious elf out of the chapel.

"I'm not quite sure myself, milord." She replied, her blue eyes following Alaric.

One Day Later

Alaric squinted as the light neared him. He'd been in the darkness for what seemed a lifetime. He was still trying to piece together the events that had led him to this point. Blurry objects approached from down the narrow corridor.

"Water?" Alaric asked with a papery voice. A canteen was thrown and landed between his feet. He reached down to drink, swigging with gusto. The chain lashed to his manacles rattled as he moved.

"What have you to say for yourself?" A stern voice asked. Alaric's eyes had adjusted to the torchlight. A tall man with a long mane of red hair and an eye patch held the torch. He was the man they called Maxwell Tyrosus. Behind him Alaric saw Osra and the damned mage that landed him in here. She looked at him with drilling, curious eyes, like he was some project or specimen to be observed. Those eyes irritated him. Lastly was his gaoler, a stocky man called Dio with a filthy blonde beard.

"This isn't my first time in a dungeon. I find the process so tedious." Alaric said, finishing the last drop of water. He'd never tasted anything so good in his life.

"Shut up! You'll show respect to the Lord Commander!" Dio called out.

"Your japes and jabs are off point, Alaric'Faltron Quel. Vanguard Osra Leone has told me of who you are. I'd expected more from a person such as you. I had great respect for you before that show you put on yesterday. I'd heard you were an orator, master planner, an idealist, and an agile politician on top of being a battle commander." Tyrosus stated.

"I cannot speak for you, but the undead have been my constant enemy for many years now." Alaric replied. "That one upstairs is no different."

"Leonid Bartholomew is a loyal and obedient soldier in the Argent Dawn. He came to us when he could not trust anyone else. Though his body may seem like it is one of the living dead, both he and we consider it to be a mere condition—an affliction like any other. It stops him not from fighting for our cause as adamantly as any other." Tyrosus explained.

Dio nodded stupidly.

"The Argent Dawn is few. Our enemies are many. Here at Light's Hope Chapel we have barely fifteen hundred souls. The entire Plaguelands is against us. We need minds and powers like yours to aid us defend this world from the Scourge. We fight a war against pure evil, against very obliteration itself. This is not a war for ideals or causes. It is not a battle for reputation or love. It is a fight for survival. We stand stronger together than alone."

"I don't want to help you. Your cause is admirable, however, I would not have helped you before, and especially after I found that creature in your employment." Alaric told Tyrosus.

"I will not stand to listen to this. I have preparations to make. Osra, see if you can convince this—guest of ours against his idiocy." Tyrosus swiveled around and walked indignantly away taking his mage companion and the gaoler. At least he'd lit a small brazier with the torch. The thick-set Dio gave him a look that said he didn't deserve even that as he turned.

"Exactly what is it that you intend that is so much more important than the survival of the mortal races of Azeroth? You can trust me." She added softly.

The elf looked around for a moment. He realized the truth in her words. She would keep his answers secret. He just couldn't bring himself to tell her the whole truth though. Too much had happened to explain it all, and she would never truly understand.

"My power was stripped from me. I am cut off from the Ley-lines and ambient magical energies of the world. I must journey south to restore them and then return to Quel'thalas to finish my business there with the tyrants that led my foolish people into oblivion."

"You speak of slaying Lor'themar Theron? The regent of Quel'thalas?" Osra's eyes went wide with shock.

"He is but one elf. There were also others." Alaric said, looking past Tyrosus. He could see the faces of his enemy, as if they were standing before him. The trio of elves was burned into Alaric's mind and the memory itself made him sick with hate.

"Alaric, listen to Lord Tyrosus. Put aside the blind hatred. You are a better man than this." Osra said desperately.

"How would you know?" Alaric shot back.

"I can hear it in your words. I saw it in your eyes when you talked about your past."

"What truth?" For a moment there was only the echo of their voices through the cold walls of the dungeon.

"The world has changed. Let go of this foolish pride and stop living in the past. I don't know everything that you've been through, but things are not as they were in the era that you seem to refuse to leave."

"Leave me be." Alaric grunted, sitting back. He kicked Osra the canteen.

"You truly are miserable." Osra said pitifully, turning to leave the elf alone in the cold darkness.

Character Bio: Leonid Bartholomew

Leonid Bartholomew was once one of the most noble and lauded heroes of Lordaeron. He fought in almost every major battle in the Second War, rushing from front to front to encourage and revitalize soldiers. He formed deep bonds with the common men and women of the nation in his travels and warring.

After the war he courted and wed the love of his life, Adrianna Teringas. The two lived the outskirts of Lordegarde, but when the Plague spread to the city, Adrianna was infected. Leonid destroyed the undead corpse of his wife. Vowing to avenge her and those who perished while he sat idle, Leonid once again went to war. He was slain in the Battle of Northdale and revived as his wife was: a common Scourge minion.

Leonid Bartholomew was freed from the control of the Scourge after the rebellion of Sylvanas Windrunner. Perhaps due to the situation with his wife, the warrior saw his undeath as an illness and malady that needed curing, never seeing himself as truly one of the Forsaken or undead. He fought for his new allies for many long months, rising up in their ranks quickly, but became disenchanted with Sylvanas' methods and plans.

Bartholomew defected from the Forsaken after finding the Argent Dawn. There he became a trusted and popular commander and resumed the role that he'd intended to take up years ago when he left Dalaran.

Factoid: The War of the Ruins

The War of the Ruins is an event that evoked many popular myths among the people of the Alliance from the disappearance of the general-commanding and Lord of the Blood Elves, Alaric'Quel, to the legendary battles in Northrend.

Two years after the end of the Third War, the mage-warrior Alaric Faltron'Quel gathered a small following of blood elves to his cause. Bargaining with local Alliance commanders who were distraught and disheartened with the Alliance, Alaric'Quel forged an expeditionary force that set sail across the Great Sea to gather a portion of the Waters of Eternity from Mount Hyjal in order to bring the fight against the Lich King to a more even playing field.

After brief but decisive conflicts against both the Horde and the night elves, the expeditionary force returned to the Eastern Kingdoms. With the reaffirmed support of all the current nations of the Alliance, a massive army of nearly 100,000 was assembled in southern Lordaeron, Alaric'Quel commanding.

A long campaign ensued that left a trail of battles from Southshore to the Capitol (Lordegarde), from Silvermoon in Quel'thalas to Northrend itself. This main action in the Eastern Kingdoms has thus become known as the War of the Ruins.

Though short, the War of the Ruins left a bloody but important legacy. It hampered the Lich King's invasion of the world for several more years, allowing the mortal races of Azeroth time to catch their breath after the cataclysmic Third War. Most of the realm of Quel'thalas was also reclaimed and resettled by the blood elves, paving their path back to the forefront of the world's powers.

Author's Note: Hey all, just wanted to point out the timeline for this story is set during the World of Warcraft: Wrath of the Lich King. The story kicks off about 4 months after the beginning of Wrath of the Lich King and will continue from there. I'll also post this on an updated Prologue so as to avoid further confusion.

Thanks for helping me started in this new endeavor. I think I'm more excited for this story than I've been for any others I've written, so I hope that excitement bleeds over into you all as well.

See you all soon!

Omegatrooper


	4. Chapter 3: Colliding Convictions

**Chapter 3: Colliding Convictions**

Far Eastern Plaguelands

Elise Marjhan stomped along the budding walls of Light's Hope Chapel. Bowmen and scouts gave the raven-haired paladin wide berth when they read the anger on her face. Heavy armor plates of gold and crimson clattered against black ringmail. Two huge shoulder pauldrons carved from brightiron into the shape of two swords shimmered in the early morning moonlight. Elise Marjhan was always ready for battle.

"The Argent Dawn is a band of impotent, delusional idealists." She grumbled. As a paladin of reputable name for the Knights of the Silver Hand before the Third War, Marjhan had been assigned by the Grand Crusader, Saidan Dathrohan himself, to be the envoy and ambassador to the splinter-group, "Argent Dawn".

The paladin had just left from another one of Maxwell Tyrosus' epically long strategy sessions. She'd urged Tyrosus and the others once more to attack while the Scourge was recuperating from their losses due to the war in Northrend. The most infuriating of the group was the Argent Dawn's highest ranked paladin in the Plaguelands, Sir Duncan the Boldstrider. Indeed he was a handsome sight to look at, but his stubborn state of mind and infuriating personal philosophy on the Light was ridiculous. Here they called him the next 'Uther the Lightbringer'. She had called him the next corpse.

She'd worked with the 'leadership' of the Argent Dawn now for years in order to create an atmosphere of mutual cooperation between the two organizations. The mission was somewhat a secret to the rest of the Crusade who looked down on the Argent Dawn for accepting the unkempt filth of the Horde into their ranks.

At the beginning of the new war against the Lich King, most of the Argent Dawn's strength had accompanied the Horde and Alliance invasions of Northrend, leaving their meager possessions in the Plaguelands severely undermanned.

To make matters worse, the Scourge had then launched an intensive campaign against the Scarlet Crusade. Their strongholds across Lordaeron had fallen one after the other like dominoes while Elise could only watch in horror. The battles and sieges had occurred from Hearthglen to New Avalon, Tyr's Hand to Havenshire. At Tyr's Hand nearly 9,000 had perished alone, including most of her close friends.

The losses, coupled with the departure of General Abbendis and her most loyal forces to Northrend, had left the Scarlet Crusade mortally wounded. Elise Marjhan found herself becoming more and more isolated at Light's Hope Chapel. With the remnants of the Scarlet Crusade basically a nonentity in the Eastern Plaguelands, her clout as ambassador had decreased significantly. In the strategy session Tyrosus and his cronies had ignored her superior advice.

_We were so pious. We fought so hard for the Light. Our mission was holy…how could this happen? _Those words echoed in her mind like an aching scar. The loss of so much planning, history, so many loved ones… in Lordaeron, entire generations and civilizations had been wiped out in the Scourge's horrific genocide. Now would the only flame of hope be extinguished too?

"No, I cannot lose trust in the Light. This is another test of our faith." She shook her head. A miracle had occurred here not too long ago. Remembering that restore her belief, if only momentarily.

Elise not been present at the battle of Light's Hope Chapel, but she had heard the stories along with perhaps the rest of the world. The same Scourge force that had assaulted and defeated so much of the Scarlet Crusade had attacked the Argent Dawn. The legendary paladin, Tirion Fordring, had led the forces of the Light against the numberless unholy dead on these very plains—and won. It was said that he'd even fought the Lich King Arthas in single combat. Elise was not sure whether to believe that or not. Tales of battle always seemed to be blown out of proportion, especially by the peasantry.

After their routing defeat, the Scourge had pulled back to their strongholds and remained quiet. For six months an eerie quiet descended upon the Plaguelands.

One of the tauren cow-men from Kalimdor heaved a sack of newly quarried stone before her. The golden piercing in his nose bobbed as hot breath rushed in and out of his snout. He was helping to complete the defensive wall system around the Light's Hope.

"Another heathen. I am surrounded by the sewage of the world." Elise hissed with venom in her voice. She turned to look out over the ramparts toward the heartlands of Lordaeron. The moon cast a silvery light over the dead forests in the distance. The barker trees and splinterbranches seemed to writhe and wriggle in the wind.

The tauren here gathered around a strange tree they'd managed to grow in the fetid soil. Day after day druids would circle the tree and chant in their pagan tongue, performing their witchery and tainting the minds of the good humans around them. Already there were the beginnings of some foul cult among the peasantry.

"I must escape this place and return to the Scarlet Crusade. These sods will perish soon. They refuse to march on the Scourge while they are unprepared and licking their wounds." She mused disgustedly to herself. If it were the Scarlet Crusade in Light's Hope Chapel, they would have mustered and marched the day after the battle. Elise felt the anger blossoming inside her once again.

She looked at the tauren laborer as he set the cut stones atop one another.

_By the rights I ought to smite this beast where it stands, _she brooded.

Before she could continue the thought, the sky abruptly lit up with forked green lightning. A white flash blotted out the world before Elise Marjhan for a moment. A clap of thunder and a gust of bind blasted over her, nearly knocking her off the wall. When color returned to her vision, the paladin peered up.

_A necropolis!_ Elise's mouth dropped.

Thick blankets of steam rose off walls blacker than night and covered in the terrifying visages of giant skeletons and bones. The stepped pyramid floated ominously over the encampment, blinding light erupting from its peak shot upward to the heavens. A noise that shook Elise to the bone emanated out of the necropolis. Black clouds of gargoyles detached from the necropolis.

Elise turned to witness a thick carpet of undead emerging from the tree line. They had been taken completely by surprise. A few yells were just now being lifted, but the disillusioned paladin knew it would be of no avail.

"Light help us…" She whispered, watching the monstrous army approaching the undefended, unprepared Light's Hope Chapel.

Elsewhere

Alaric floated upward through the cold ocean depths. The inky murk of the abyss lighted to dark blue, and at last he broke the surface. The waves carried the elf to a sandy shore, the water lapping gently against his side. His head was filled with white light, and for an eternity he lay under the dull sun, feeling like he was both burning and freezing at the same time.

At last he gasped for air, his body battered and shocked. He curled into the fetal position; the webs in his mind began to clear. The images flashed before his eyes once again: a sapphire dragon with shimmering scales, a crown of ice, a burning city, a tree stump at the crest of a mountain, and a figure clad in black armor bearing a sword entombing numberless souls. The blade plunged into his chest.

The elf awoke with a start. A scream echoed down the dark hallway.

"The same dream." Alaric murmured to himself. The air was cold. It pierced his lungs as he inhaled and frosted as it left. He felt around his cell again. The walls were dank and covered in some slimy moss. The hay beneath him stank of urine.

_Weak. You leaned on magic too much. _

The words rang within the elf. Without his magic he felt as if he'd lost a limb. No, he felt like he'd lost three. If he could still touch that beautiful, delicious flow of magic these paltry bonds would be easily broken. He would have set things right…now he was but a cripple; a shadow of his former self. He had been entirely sealed off from all universal magic, and not a year of trying to return his power had brought him an answer.

The blood elves had all felt the thirst after the desecration of the Sunwell. It was a stinging, remorseful reminder of their loss. It was what had driven Kael'thas and his followers insane. Alaric found himself wishing even to feel that thirst.

All he felt now was nothingness. There was no addiction anymore, but it only deepened the black emptiness of his heart. Only the three ghostly faces that filled that space now.

Lor'themar Theron's haughty face laughed as he guided the blood elves to their damning fate. It was because of him that Alaric had been ostracized and now hunted down.

The second face floated in front of him: Halduron Brightwing. Halduron, once proud and strong-willed, stood by and watched as the blood elves were steered under the umbrella of the Horde simply because he'd been appointed the rank of Ranger-General by Theron. To him, prestige and rank was worth more than the wellbeing of his people. Brightwing was a sellout and despicable.

The last face brought the hateful bile of betrayal to the tip of Alaric's tongue. Salvos Fysian was perhaps the world's greatest swordsman, honing his ability over fifteen hundred years. His unique and unbeatable style had earned him fame and the second name, 'The Duke of Blades'. Fysian was once man he'd felt was a dear friend, perhaps even best friend. The thought of him now was more like tarnished steel.

A light appeared down the distant hallway, twinkling like a distant star. Shadows began to flicker on the walls as it neared. Perhaps it was Osra, come to try and change his mind again? The elf couldn't remember the last time he'd seen sunlight.

_How long have I been down here?_

Suddenly Alaric felt a chill run down his back. The sounds echoing down the long hallway were not human footsteps. _Click clack scrape! Click clack scrape! _It sounded like something was dragging against the stone floor. The elf saw the torchlight reflect off a long, bloody sword.

"Come at last for me have you?" The elf said. He tried to sound strong, but his voice was hoarse with thirst and weak with hunger. Ever since they'd been cut off from the Sunwell, such mortal worries had grown in the elves.

The figure came into focus. It was his gaoler wearing the customary Argent Dawn hauberk. Blood seeped from a deep wound that cleaved his skull near in two. One eye, milky with death stared at him ominously. Another wound had savaged his thick leg, leaving it in ruins. The reddened sword hung from a limp hand while the other was occupied with the burning torch.

"Dio, you look different." Alaric jested. The zombie edged closer.

A thunderous roar shook the dungeon. Dust fell from the cracks fell like brown snakes. Suddenly he realized the scream that had woken him was not his own. It was Dio's.

_What is happening above?_

The zombie loomed above him. If it just came a little closer he could kick the sword from its hand and snap its neck between his legs.

"I am Alaric'Faltron Quel, Lord of Tranquillen and Warden of Quel'thalas. The blood of the Sunstriders runs through me!" Alaric shouted out defiantly. "I will not be butchered like a helpless pig!"

The zombie stopped. It realized what he was about to do. Instead of advancing and mindlessly thrusting the weapon, it held its arm up, bringing the blade to Alaric's throat. From this distance he could do nothing chained as he was.

"Clever bastard." Alaric sighed.

In a bloody split-second the zombie's head flew off as a blade flashed through its neck. Still-warm blood splashed onto Alaric's tunic. As the headless body fell Osra stepped forward, cleaning her blade with a cloth.

"It seems I owe you my life once more." Alaric chuckled.

"Whether you wish it or not you will fight with us now. The Scourge is at our gates. They've already penetrated the central bastions where the land walls and breastworks were incomplete. They took us by complete surprise, scattering our force." The warrior stated, blue eyes flashing over Alaric's chains. She took the gaoler's key and unlocked his manacles. "We need every man possible. I had to fight my way into the dungeons—our own dungeons!"

"You're going to need this." The swordswoman handed Alaric the leafblade and a water skin which he chugged deeply. Life flowed back into him. He noticed she sported a long scratch on her cheek. Sweat and the grit of battle adorned her brow as if her crown.

Alaric examined the leafblade. The light of the torch flickered off it, giving it the appearance of a living creature.

"And why do you still think I'll help you?"

"You seem to value your life."

The elf did not reply, simply standing. Taking a deep breath, he readied himself for what was about to come.

"Give me your word you'll only fight the Scourge. Leave Bartholomew out of this—at least for now." Osra insisted.

"Very well. Let us be on with it then." The elf announced.

Silvermoon, Quel'thalas

Lor'themar Theron clasped his forehead in his hand. He studied the parchment before him. More calls for blood elves for Warchief Thrall's war in Northrend. The Regent Lord of Quel'thalas knew well enough the importance of the war, and that his people were ever willing to fight the undead Scourge, but the less elves in Silvermoon the greater the threats to the re-forged city.

The Sunstrider Spire, once a monument to the classical peak of high elven culture had been rebuilt from the ruins. Now the palace was known as Sunfury Spire. The Spire had been utterly ruined during the Scourge's invasion in the Third War, but now it was a glory to behold once more. Nay, it was the crown jewel of the reign of Lor'themar Theron. The Regent Lord examined the intricate winewood carved staircases that depicted the exodus of the highborne. Paintings of the tall and brilliant heroes of elven lore were etched onto the grand domed roof above the throne room. Gems and lines of silver had been worked into the artwork to give it ethereal realism; eyes shining, swords glinting.

From the roof fell grandiose, purple curtains wrought from the finest silks in the world. Pink petals had been sewn into the curtains from the cherry blossoms that grew in the courtyards. They flowed gently with the slight breeze that blew in from the sun drenched city beneath the Spire. It had all been meticulously reworked to bring back and enhance the beauty that had once existed here.

_The blood elves will endure and prosper…under me, _Theron thought. The blood elves needed a sane leader who would direct them to a new, glorious future. There were still those that opposed his reign, but in time the title 'Regent Lord' would slowly become 'King'. It all required patience though. After discovering King Kael'thas' dirty secret in his dealing with the demons, Lor'themar had been quick to cut off all association with the madman.

Theron had dissolved the Convocation of Silvermoon, stating that Kael'thas' spies filled its halls. With the people so distraught and stinging from Kael's betrayal it had been easy to subtly assume absolute power. To return the blood elves to their rightful place under the sun, it was a necessary evil.

Footsteps echoed through the chambers of Sunfury Spire. The elf presented himself before the Regent Lord. Lor'themar Theron felt a chill run down his spine when he came eye to eye with his subject. His armor was light ringmail brought to shape from hammered adamantium. A ponytail of shining black hair was slung across his shoulder, held tame by circlets of gold. Across the newcomer's back were two leafblades. They were the finest weapons ever forged by elven hands; Tel'ar and T'eis.

Tel'ar, the Karma of Deeds, shone bright and blue like the sky. The lore behind Tel'ar was an epic that filled entire tomes with dauntless and valiant poems. T'eis, the Karma of Chains, was black like the eyes of its owner. Its hilt was carved from the bones of an arch demon, and the weapon rumored to be cursed.

"Regent Lord Lor'themar Theron, I humble myself before you. You have requested my presence and I have taken honor in your wish." The swordsman said, bowing his head to the shadows.

"We have but one loose end to tie before our nation can move forward." Lor'themar spoke. His voice was carried by the acoustics of the chamber. "Duke of Blades, Salvos Fysian, you will pursue and eliminate Alaric'Faltron Quel. His continuing survival poses a threat to our plans for our people. As long as he lives, he is a banner around which the conservative factions may rally. He is yet a hero to some in Quel'thalas."

"Yes, my lord. I will depart at once." The Duke of Blades replied.

"I know you will not fail me as others have." The Regent Lord said.

"I will deliver Alaric'Quel to the very gates of the hells." The Duke turned, walking into the light beyond the doors of Sunfury Spire.

Light's Hope Chapel

The two dashed through the dark, dank tunnel with the sounds of battle growing overhead. Emerging into the sudden light of the sun rising just beyond the horizon, Alaric and Osra were confronted with the swirling chaos of battle. Alaric glimpsed for a moment Maxwell Tyrosus in battle attire fighting an abomination before he disappeared behind a wall of armor and flesh.

There was no tactic to the carnage, no crisp battle lines. There were only pockets of resistance and scattered men desperately fighting to stay alive. The chapel itself was ablaze, setting off an orange glow in the early morning air.

A thick cloud of dust was trampled up by the battle, hiding the tops of the walls surrounding Light's Hope. For the first time the elf noticed the massive necropolis above them blotting out the moon and clouds.

The experience, emotion, and instinct from thirty years of war flooded back into Alaric. The Scourge was a devious enemy, and almost always numerically superior. Their weakness lay in their chain of command. Necromancers, mind-freed undead, liches, and the various demons in the employee of Arthas Menethil all commanded the masses. Without their middle and upper hierarchies the roving hordes would crumble eventually unless control was reasserted by another intermediary. Immediately he began to look for targets.

Before them a quartet of slain Argent Dawn soldiers lay motionless. Behind the bodies stood a man in rich black velvet trimmed with orange runes, his head half hidden by a neckband that rose in two peaks. Black eyes examined them for a mere moment.

"Esir Gnik Hcil eht fo rewop eht yb." A hiss spilled from the necromancer's lips.

Alaric witnessed the spell as he'd seen it a hundred times before. A shadow seemed to pass through the air before being enveloped by the dead bodies. The dead began to stand as their muscles and bone tissues were given instruction instead of true life. The four shambling soldiers drew their blades, closing in on Alaric and Osra.

"Can you handle them?" Alaric asked.

"Certainly." The swordswoman said, lowering into a fighting stance. Her short sword dripped with blood, but she stood almost innocently. Alaric noticed the gaze of calm on her face that spoke of her experience in the blade. For a moment the elf felt a flash of envy. He knew the blade well, but he'd never dedicated himself to studying its art. The peace she felt when holding her sword was above his level of understanding.

Alaric turned heel and ran to the right. The heat of the blazing chapel atop the hill felt like it would blister him even from down here. Suddenly a spear flew at him, cutting loose the cloth on his cuff and ripping a gash in his flesh. The elf ducked as another was thrust from the side. Two undead minions, both human bodies in advanced decay bore down on him.

The elf swung the sword, turning his hips for extra power to knock aside the first enemy's weapon. He swirled closer and took off its head with a quick strike. Parrying another spear blow, Alaric fell to his knees and pierced through the neck of his second assailant. The corpse crumbled.

Standing, Alaric found himself behind the necromancer. The fallen mage was too busy controlling his forces against Osra and the others to notice he'd been taken unawares. Charging, Alaric ran his weapon through the necromancer's heart up to the hilt. Blood sprayed from the wound onto the elf's hands. A gasp fled the necromancer as he fell to the ground, a pool of red forming around him.

Osra finished the last reanimated corpse with an upward slice that sent half the zombie's head flying off. For a moment Alaric thought she'd been wounded as she clasped a slender bicep. When she removed the hand, he saw she'd somehow fastened her muddied feral-dog armband in the middle of the fight.

The temporary disruption of communications after the death of the necromancer caused many undead to break formation. Some wandered aimlessly while others fell on each other. The greater bulk withdrew to the outer walls of Light's Hope to reorganize.

"You're smiling." Alaric said, surprised. Indeed, Osra Leone had a white-toothed grin spread across her face in the midst of the battle. Her eyes were bright behind dark bangs.

"You are too."

Alaric suddenly realized his own foolish smirk. He wiped it off his face.

_Why am I smiling? Was it this little victory? No, that's not it. _

"Rally warriors of the Argent Dawn! To me!" Maxwell Tyrosus' voice echoed from the ridge near the burning chapel.

Knots of warriors were gathering, reorganizing themselves in their brief respite. A banner unfurled atop the mound, silver, gold and black. The sun blasted over the horizon at that moment, flinging its rays of light upon the flag and the warriors around it. The air around the hilltop glowed like a halo above the defenders of Light's Hope Chapel, the sunrise giving light to the dusty air. Spearheads, mail, and helms sparkled like a starry night sky. For a moment the elf paused at the beautiful sight.

As soon as the calm had come the chaos returned. The dirt beneath Alaric's feet shook like an earthquake. The ground split and cracked, throwing him backwards as a huge nerubian spider burst through the ground.

The undead spider climbed over Alaric, bending its head back toward its bandage-wrapped thorax straight at the elf. The two came face to face, one set of eyes facing four. The nerubian _screamed, _opening its mouth to reveal a terrifying triple set of razor teeth between two huge pincers. Alaric jammed the leafblade into one of its unblinking black eyes. The nerubian spun away spraying green viscera from its wound.

Alaric quickly backed up as another nerubian clambered out of the burrow and flew toward him. Dozens more began to emerge like a turned over ant pile.

_So damn weak_, Alaric thought bitterly. If it was _before _he could have sent a wave of white-hot fire through the burrow to incinerate them all. The undead were advancing once more, endless ranks rushing through the incomplete defensive walls of Light's Hope Chapel.

Looking around, it was obvious the Argent Dawn had been split into two positions. The defenders still on the walls were continuing to unload missile fire from catapults and bows, even throwing rocks and stones meant for the construction of the walls. Across the battlefield atop the far hill and with the mountains to their backs, Tyrosus' forces were falling into battle ranks.

_Seven or eight hundred men perhaps, _the elf observed.

"Osra, we need to retreat to Tyrosus!" Alaric shouted over the hiss of arrows flying from the walls. It was too late now though. The monstrous spiders had surrounded them. Slowly they crept closer, carapaces rubbing together to birth an awful sound. The deadly advance stopped.

Osra stared up at the necropolis, eyes wide. Her armor and clothing was wet and sticky with blood.

"What is that?" Fear crept into the woman's voice.

A visibly decaying gryphon screamed out of the belly of the hovering stepped pyramid. Patches of mottled, corrupt flesh hung loosely to a skeletal frame. The eye sockets held orbs of swirling blue, and atop its back rode a figure dark figure. The elf realized in horror that the leather saddle had been sown together from the flayed hides of humans.

The gryphon circled around once and landed in a cloud of dust not twenty feet from Alaric and Osra.

"I taste prey in the air." A voice emerged from the haze. It was deep and somber like a mournful dusk. "I come to find who snuffs my necromancers and find two calves cut off from the herd."

As the haze cleared the death knight came into full view. The death knight's dark gray, pockmarked armor was chiseled into the likeness of a set of bones from some ancient, ferocious animal. The monster stood seven feet tall, more than a head above Alaric. Two eyes shined from beneath the fanged helm. They were the eyes of a predator.

Alaric unconsciously stepped backwards. The very air around the death knight was heavy. Alaric suddenly realized breathing rhythm had changed. Was it fear?

"A death knight…prepare yourself." Alaric said.

"Do you have a strategy for this?" Osra asked. Her voice was tremulous.

"No."

The death knight placed a hand on the hilt of his runeblade, slowly drawing. The weapon stood as tall as Alaric at just over six feet. Along its dark length were carved runes of frost and blood to call upon even more unholy necromantic magic. The base of the blade was serrated and adorned with an infant's skull. Frosty breath came from beneath the shadows of the helm. The sunlight seemed to be sucked in by death knight's armor, giving off a shadow even larger than his frame.

"I had not believed it so when I was told that Alaric Faltron'Quel was at Light's Hope Chapel. Now this threat to the Lich King can be purged forever."

_There's no way we can fight him. Without magic I'm weak as a mewling child._

All of a sudden, a high pitched yell filled Alaric's ears. Osra charged forward, sword raised high, shining in the morning sun.

"You fool! Don't!" Alaric shouted out.

She struck at the death knight's chest, but met his blade instead. With one arm holding the sword, the death knight delivered a backhand with his thick, gauntleted hand. Osra flew sideways, falling to the ground in a heap. She tried to stand, swaying back and forth dizzily as if concussed. Blood leaked from her mouth and nose.

The warrior of the Scourge lifted his arm once more. A lance of pink energy shot out of his fingertips and enveloped her. The death grip spell pulled the helpless Osra through the air toward an outstretched runeblade.

"No!" Alaric gave a shout and dashed forward, just knocking the runeblade aside in time. With one arm, he caught Osra and danced away from a counter-strike.

"Just wait here for a moment. We'll be out of this soon." He said, setting Osra down gently on a patch of soft ground. She tried to say something, but her words would not come. Her jaw was broken. A feeling deep within Alaric's heart began to well up. The roiling emotion was one forged in blood and battle, and through strength shared with another. It was something he'd not felt in a long time…comradeship.

"I will try to weather this storm for you." He told her. Envisioning a circle around Osra, Alaric began to attempt to formulate a defensive plan.

The sounds of trumpets and battle cries filled the air. Alaric saw the troops on the hill surging forward like the tsunami consuming the land before it. On the walls fighters armed scorpions and retaliated against the veils of gargoyles.

_Make it in time!_

Alaric brought himself to bear against the enemy in front of him. He had to hold out until they made it here. The runeblade fell from the sky, striking, piercing, and swinging time and time again. Each clash of metal felt like it would dislocate his shoulders. His arms throbbed with pain.

Alaric brought his sword up to parry, but with a resonating _crack _the weapon shattered in two. The elf's eyes opened wide as the next attack wound up. He redirected the next blow with the side of his hilt. The vibration rattled the bones in his body.

The elf ducked away from another attack, but the mysterious warrior's free hand pointed straight at the ground. One of the runes on his blade burst into blue light that stung Alaric's eyes. The soil beneath the two began to frost and steam with more unholy magic. The icy infection quickly spread, consuming all the land between the walls of Lights Hope Chapel. It seemed to spread to the undead specifically, coating them like armor. Dodging another hit, Alaric nearly slipped on an ice slick.

_This one is truly powerful. Such a radius for spells…if I could channel and cast magic, perhaps we would be even. All I can do now is delay. _

The ground fell away from the Lord of Tranquillen without warning. The death knight's hand was outstretched. He was casting his death grip spell, binding matter with magic and reeling it in. The elf was pulled almost instantaneously through the air toward the runeblade. Vision blurred with speed.

Alaric brought his ruined sword to bear without a thought. He would not be skewered without taking the death knight down with him. The edge of the runeblade neared quicker than anything the elf had ever seen. At its end for a moment he thought he could see home shining in the sun.

"Zacharias Morde!" A voice cried out. The sweet song of metal on metal chanted through Alaric's ears.

The figure standing between the elf and the death knight looked much like the other living dead littering the battlefield. His claymore, Death's End, was grinding against the runeblade. Alaric tumbled to the ground as the spell was interrupted.

"Leonid Bartholomew." The death knight acknowledged. "It has been a long time."

"Too long, Morde." Bartholomew hissed. His claymore trembled beneath the might of the death knight's weapon. It was obvious to the elf that the men before him had a long and black history.

Bartholomew was clothed in a hodgepodge of mismatching armor. He looked almost paltry in comparison to the dark glory of the death knight, Morde. Nevertheless, the two engage in a dance of blades. They were almost equal. Alaric noticed that Bartholomew's footwork especially was something extraordinary.

Behind the two the Argent Dawn's counterattack was blazing through the bulk of the Scourge now. In the center of it all, Lord Tyrosus was surrounded by a veritable tsunami of men and women. The elf recognized several of the Dawn's leaders striding toward the death knight at full speed.

Even Chambers was decked head to toe his elaborate and formidable heavy armor. Its plate was cooled to a deep blue and set in a way to make the man appear an impenetrable fortress. Razor shoulder pads discouraged any grabbing for hand-to-hand combat, and spiny grooved shin guards and boots allowed for even more weapons. Beneath it all, Chamber's heavily muscled frame kept the whole thing not only standing, but moving almost like a warrior would without the load of so much protection. Each one of his axe swings were thrown with so much force that they clipped the heads and arms not off just one or two opponents, but as many were standing in front of the ferocious death dealer.

The archmage Teresa Fireweaver launched waves of magic like cannon canister shot. Entire rows of undead were mowed down by her fearsome power. For the first time Alaric noticed the special clothing she wore. They were old robes from Dalaran's Kirin Tor, usually handed down to each of the ruling mageocrats in the Council of Air. They were designed to streamline magic and simply channeling using a small collage of unique amethysts and sapphires brought to the Eastern Kingdoms by the ancestors of the high elves.

The last was a paladin, calmly, almost lazily, stepping through and around nerubian and undead pike men alike. With one hand he held a leather back tome with time-browned pages overflowing with the Light's scripts. In the other was hammer glowing with the blessings of the sacred. Strategically positioning himself in the midst of their thickest numbers, his weapon flew in all directions. Every time the silver wrought hammer touched the corrupt forms of the undead they would be wreathed in holy flame. His armor was shining argent and burnished gold leaf, light but protective. The very design itself gave off the same air of faith and power that seemed to flow from its wearer.

The force of the Argent Dawn's counterattack, much of the weight behind these three, seemed to almost immediately turn the Scourge line. When they saw what was occurring, those on the walls began to stream down the roundel towers and staircases, joining their brothers and sisters.

"You'll die for what you did, Zacharias!" Bartholomew cursed, his hideous face filled with anger.

"Perhaps, but it won't be you that ends the fun." The death knight licked his lips. Morde's runeblade flew again and again, raining down a shower of attacks on Leonid who parried and countered each one.

"Your wife begged for the end. Afterwards, when I left her with nothing, I granted the bitch her wish. As a gesture of our friendship I bound her crying spirit to her ruined body. It would have been entertaining to watch you put the blade through her heart with all those tears in your eyes, old friend." Zacharias' laugh was like a black, burning rain.

Bartholomew said nothing but his milky, undead eyes spoke volumes. Raising Death's End, he charged forward. Leonid's attack brought a shower of sparks from both blades, slipped past Morde's weapon, and skirted his armor.

Suddenly the paladin Alaric had spotted earlier burst through the lines. He read an incantation from the tome and broke a seal of holy power which appeared and hovered above his head like a spinning halo.

"I don't need your help Boldstrider!" Leonid shouted.

"It matters not. I am ending this battle now." The paladin announced. He looked young, with brown hair and piercing blue eyes. Alaric could sense the confidence roiling off of him.

"Duncan the Boldstrider." The death knight tasted the name. "What twist of fate is this, to have so much prey before my eyes? I see a feast before me."

"I fear not, death knight. It is time you depart Light's Hope Chapel."

"This place slakes my thirst." Zacharias' purple lips turned upward in a smile.

"You cannot win on this ground. The power of the Light is stronger here than anywhere else."

"Test me, Boldstrider." The death knight's eyes opened widely.

"I am an instrument of the Light. These exemplars would purify this place once more!"

The paladin threw his fiery hammer to the ground. Soil flew in chunks away from the mighty blast to leave a crater. The ground erupted with a righteous conflagration that swept away the ice and minions of the Scourge, turning them to ash in a heartbeat. The inferno consecrated the ground, devouring the unholy. The storm lasted only a few moments, but its damage to the Scourge force was great.

Alaric looked on in part amazement and denial. Ash fell from the sky like a volcanic cloud, blanketing everything in white and grey. For a second, the elf thought the carnage resembled a newly fallen, peaceful snow.

The holy fires died down quickly, leaving the ground much the same as it had been before. Everything bound with unholy power within the confines of the walls was undone save Zacharias Morde.

The death knight had shielded his face with hands. His bracers and pauldrons had been melted to slag, dripping off him in steaming lines of dribble. Blood mixed in with the molten metal, but not enough to show mortal, or even deep wounds.

"That will not be enough to stop me! I will rip the piety straight out of your beating heart, you runt!" Zacharias spoke angrily.

"The Light—always—guards this land." Duncan replied, heaving like he'd just run to Stormwind and back.

"I know you have no more tricks, Boldstrider. I will be back for more hunting."

Zacharias Morde sheathed his runeblade, spitting on the ground before him. Slowly he turned, cloak fluttering in the wind. A passing cloud of dust stole his figure from the defenders of Light's Hope Chapel. The undead legions before the walls began to turn, disappearing into the forests from whence they came.

"Come back! Zacharias!" Leonid Bartholomew cursed, running forward and slashing at the ashes and sift. It was too late now though. The forsaken let loose a scream of frustration. Whatever had been done to him by this death knight, Alaric felt they had common ground.

_How strange…common ground with one of the undead. _

Above, the necropolis disappeared in a crackle of lightning. Its sudden absence created a void that sucked up the air above Light's Hope, lifting the smog of battle.

The elf rushed over to Osra. She lay on the mound he'd laid her down on. Her eyes were closed and a tangle of dark hair fell over her face. A great purple bruise had already begun to spread across her face. She clutched her short sword like it meant her life though. He sighed with relief.

Before Alaric could even call for help, the paladin, Duncan, appeared. He knelt down beside Alaric, gently brushing the young woman's hair aside. The magic of the Holy Light seemed to bubble from his hand as he held it over her face. The bruise began to slowly recede, though not completely.

"That power—" The elf began.

"—will not be seen again." Duncan cut him off. "It was a miracle, or should have been."

"Can you heal her?" Alaric ignored the paladin's strange statement and turned to Osra. She seemed less pained now.

"Partly…I will repair the internal damage and knit the bones. The rest will have to heal naturally." He studied Osra's features quickly. "She is pretty, even with the grime of war."

"And strong." Alaric added.

"Aye. She'll heal quickly. I must be on to the more seriously injured." The paladin departed, visibly sagging with exhaustion.

Emotions and fatigue churned through Alaric. The sensation of camaraderie that he'd never expected to feel again still lingered. After all the betrayal, blood, and death of the last two years it was the last thing he expected to feel. Instead, he'd been chasing vengeance.

_What was the meaning of her smile? And mine? _He thought back to the middle of the battle. _Bloodlust? _

He sat back next to Osra to recover his breath. The young lady's eyes began to flutter open, blue as the sky.

"I'm glad you made it." She said, looking up at him.

Alaric took in his surroundings. The chapel atop the hill was a burned wreck. Other fires littered the battlefield, and the walls seemed painted with blood. The undefiled bodies of the fallen Argent Dawn warriors lay where they were slain, carpeting the hills and plain. Wailing for water and aid filled the air. The paladin's retaliation had left a powdery coating of fine soot across the fields of war. The clouds and sky were pastel orange, pink, and yellow. A slight breeze of clean, cool air washed the air of its stagnation. It was almost a beautiful morning.

"I'm glad you made it too."

Later That Day

Duncan Macallan opened his eyes and rolled onto the side of the cot. His muscles ached like they'd been torn from the bone. It hurt to stand on his feet. Nevertheless, the paladin forced himself up. He washed his face in a bowl of water and then put his boots on.

The footman who'd woken him stood watch outside his tent. With the Scourge attack, most of the solid structure buildings in the encampment had been burned or knocked down. He sat quickly before a stone focus-idol and uttered a quick prayer.

"Thank you, soldier. I appreciate nothing more than waking up." Duncan said dryly, exiting the tent without bothering to armor himself. He wore the same faded yellow tunic and died brown trousers he'd fallen asleep in. The sun had climbed high into the sky and was beginning to dip down now.

Duncan could still feel the essence of the Light shimmering within him. It felt warm now, instead of the burning heat that scorched his body when he'd channeled the holy magic through his body.

The bodies of hundreds, if not thousands of heroes and holy men were housed in the catacombs. The ground had been blessed and made sacred by the Archbishop of Lordaeron, Pious de Nei. Most had been moved from various cemeteries across Lordaeron during the Third War to prevent resurrection by the Scourge. The honored dead could rest without the threat of becoming nothing more than more pawns to Arthas Menethil.

During the First Battle of Light's Hope Chapel, when all seemed lost for the mere 300 defenders, the spirits of these dead had answered the call of the heroes Darion Mograine and Tirion Fordring, defeating the Scourge and driving back the Lich King himself. It had been a miracle.

As he walked along the crude roads of Light's Hope, soldiers stood cheered for him. Salutes and looks of adoration and respect showered him. Duncan felt a sickness crawling up within him. What he'd done in the battle today was not heroic or good…it was a sin.

The Argent Dawn was outnumbered, outgunned, and outmatched. They were scattered and unprepared. It was only a matter of minutes before Zacharias Morde and his Scourge had overrun the rest of the encampment.

Seeing no other option, Duncan, in desperation drew upon the spirits residing in Light's Hope and forced their combined power into himself to consecrate the very ground and destroy the Scourge army, or so he believed. They had appeared just the same as they had against the Lich King, but therein lay the dilemma. Was the despair of Light's Hope so great that the spirits had granted their strength, or had he forcefully usurped it?

Holy power should not have operated with such an approach. There was not posturing, no coercion of the virtues of the Light. There could be no compulsion and ordering. The power of the Light flowed like a gentle stream or a crashing waterfall. Neither a river nor a waterfall could flow from a person. The Light was natural. He had made it artificial. The action had nearly ripped him apart. That was why it physically hurt so much, or so he believed.

The blood elves forcefully subjugated the power of the Light through the naaru. What they did perverted the ideals and the teachings of the Church. During the battle he remembered what he'd been told of them and their ways of taming the Light. The memories from what he himself had done were too fuzzy, but he felt like it was wrong. Whatever the ploy had been it had worked. What was the cost though?

"My soul?" Duncan mumbled to himself, unsure.

_I regret it. _The paladin hung his head in shame as he walked through another deluge of congratulations and thanks.

_Have I fallen from grace? If so, how could the Light lend itself to me to heal? Am I simply forcing it now without knowing? Have I forgotten how to listen to myself to find the power as I used to? I must cleanse myself later._

The paladin put the thoughts out of his head. He had a meeting to attend and duties yet to fulfill.

Duncan walked up the stone steps through what had been the barracks until that morning. He then crossed the planned sight for a courtyard where he'd intended to do his meditation in the future before arriving at the Druids Tree. There, the tauren who'd come so far from to join their cause usually gathered to practice their magic. From it, a great tall pine, lush and green, had grown from what was once dead soil. Most likely, it was the tallest, healthiest plant in all of Lordaeron now.

In the shade of the tree Maxwell Tyrosus, Even Chambers, Teresa Fireweaver, Leonid Bartholomew, Elise Marjhan, and strangely enough, the blood elf Alaric had all gathered.

"Forgive my lateness, Commander Tyrosus, my lords and ladies." Duncan apologized, assuming his place around the table someone had managed to salvage.

"Ah, Mr. Quel, here he is; one of the finest young paladins of the Silver Hand. No worries, young Duncan. I sent for you later than the rest of your peers. You deserve a rest after that masterful performance." Maxwell Tyrosus smiled. Duncan winced. Chambers put a massive, gauntleted hand on his shoulder and gave him a nod.

"He is no man above the rest that fought." Leonid grumbled. "He deserves no reward."

Elise Marjhan shot him a glance. He wasn't sure if it was filled with venom or admiration.

_Leonid is right. I deserve no reward for what I did. _

"What news from the battle then?" Duncan changed the subject. Tyrosus and the rest of the commanders frowned.

"Of twelve hundred reported ready at arms as of last night, we lost more than three hundred. Most came in the initial attack. There are more than fifty still missing." The Lord Commander pointed to a roster lying on the table.

"A quarter of our force." Chambers shook his head in dismay. "I recall the old Arathi proverb, 'only the dead have seen the end of war.'"

"Not these days." Alaric mused morbidly.

"We must place faith in the Light, Field Marshal. With faith, we will deliver ourselves through strengths we didn't know we had." Duncan reassured the huge man. He felt the need to redouble his own strength and faith, especially after that morning.

"We must decide our next course of action. The landwalls are nearly completed. If we quicken construction, the Argent Dawn's position in the eastern Plaguelands will be exponentially strengthened." The mage, Teresa, said.

"Just like Tyr's Hand? If you recall, it fell in a matter of hours." Elise Marjhan grunted. "Morde simply needs to reorganize his force and heal his wounds. With the black magic of the Scourge at his disposal, even a child could come to the conclusion that he will return soon."

"I can see but one option." Alaric strode forward to the head of the table. "Do you know where this Zacharias Morde is gathering his strength?"

"Our rangers spotted his necropolis and a double net of pickets flung around the old Triumphal Arch south of Stratholme and the Plaguewood. I would suspect that to be his location. What do you suggest we do, Lord Alaric?" Maxwell Tyrosus inquired curiously. He pointed out the location on the map.

The cartography was plastered onto a dried cow hide. It showed eastern Lordaeron in its days of glory. The cities of Corrin's Crossing, Northdale, Tyr's Hand, and Stratholme stood out. Each metropolis had its own unique rendering of its respective skyline to indicate the city's greatness. Roads crisscrossed the wilderness and were dotted with way-stations and inns. The Greatwood, now the Plaguewood, dominate the north.

"You must do what he will not expect. You are weakened and outnumbered. Your walls are incomplete and your wills flagged."

"What do you suggest?" Tyrosus repeated. The elf stabbed a dagger into the map abruptly.

"Attack." Alaric answered, grinning.

Character Bio: Duncan Macallan the Boldstrider

Duncan Macallan is 23 years old, and stands at 6'1. His hair is light brown and his eyes blue-grey.

Duncan was inducted into the Knights of the Silver Hand at a rather young age after his strong faith and talent in channeling holy magic became apparent. Stripped from his family in Lordaeron, he grew up around other prospective pages for the Silver Hand, constantly competing and enduring brutal training. He squired until his master, paladin Bragg Pencarr, was slain in the Third War.

Afterwards he was fully inducted into the service as a full paladin, impressing many of his elders with his various strengths. He gained the epithet 'Boldstrider' during the Battle of Northdale when he singlehandedly fought his way through the thick undead lines to slay their commanding lich.

After the war, Duncan Macallan joined the Argent Dawn. There he performed many famous actions on various missions across the Lordaeron continent before being taken under the wing of the illustrious paladin and successor to Uther the Lightbringer, Tirion Fordring. During the course of his adventures with Fordring, the young paladin matured as a leader and became more worldly.

At first meeting, Duncan may seem stoic and unbending. Beneath this outer layer lies a creative, wry, and humorous personality, though it has been mulled by the long years of war.

Factoid: The First Battle for Light's Hope Chapel

After the destructive and bloody campaign against the Scarlet Crusade, the forces of the Scourge under the death knight Darion Mograine turned their attention to the last remaining bastion of resistance in the Plaguelands at Light's Hope Chapel.

With most of the Argent Dawn's forces split up to aid with a newly constructed plague sweeping through Ironforge and Stormwind, only 300 defenders remained to guard Light's Hope under Tirion Fordring, Maxwell Tyrosus, and Leonid Bartholomew.

Late in the day, a Scourge force of 10,000 or more led by Darion Mograine struck and easily overran the outer defenses. In the midst of the chaos, Fordring and Mograine met in single combat. The paladin narrowly defeated his counterpart, cracking the Ashbringer blade that the death knight carried. From within the blade the spirit of Alexandros Mograine, Darion's father, appeared and redeemed the soul of his son.

The Argent Dawn's hopes of victory were shattered as the Lich King Arthas Menethil suddenly arrived. Realizing the depths of his betrayal, Darion Mograine charged the Lich King only to be swatted away. Mograine quickly threw the Ashbringer to Tirion Fordring. With the power of the blade and the Light itself answering the call of despair, the Lich King and his undead minions were banished from the holy ground around the chapel.

Author's Note: Hey all. Thanks for sticking in so far. This chapter has been under construction for more than a month. I'm not sure why but it was difficult to write. Luckily the next one was not!

So who is Zacharias Morde? What is his goal, and why do the blood elves truly hunt Alaric'Quel? Exactly what are Alaric's full intentions? Stay tuned for the answers!

See you all soon!

-Omegatrooper


	5. Chapter 4: Steps

**Chapter 4: Steps**

Light's Hope Chapel

The smell of blood and wounds mixed with the smoky stench of ash and sweet decay. Sometimes it was cleared for brief moments by passing breezes, but cries of anguish from the field hospitals persisted no matter the atmosphere. Two days had passed since the battle and the vast carpet of wounded did not seem to shrink at all.

Beyond the temporary infirmaries and operation tents great swarms of men were gathering their campaign materials; rolled linen tarps and sticks for shelter, pots and pans for cooking, tobaccos and whatever else one might deem necessary. They donned themselves in boiled leathers and old chainmail their fathers had saved from their days in the Second War. The richest and highest born had their squires and adjuncts fit them into suits of rich plate saved from the destruction of Lordaeron.

Here though there was a pallid silence. Amputees and newly cripples looked at the procession of warriors gearing for battle with hollow eyes.

Alaric gingerly stepped around a man whose entire right side seemed one horrific burn. The sight of the blackened flesh mixed with fresh blood brought a quiet queasiness and sympathy to the elf.

_Even though I have seen so much war, these hospitals never get easier. _

When the man looked up at him he leaned down and offered a small prayer. The man rolled onto his good side. He didn't seem to care for empty prayers that could not extinguish the pain. Alaric moved on.

Hands reached out to his legs, eyes piercing him from all around. Moans and murmurs for help and water and peace filled his ears as he passed through. Ignoring it all, he pushed forward into to the far side of the camp where the least infirm and hurt had been placed. A few priests and _tauren_ druids, much to Alaric's chagrin, had joined the healers in making their rounds about the field hospital. He would not act against them until they proved themselves a threat though.

_I need to learn to cool my tempers. No need to end up in a cell again. _

At last he caught sight of Osra Leone. Bundled in a plain brown scarf and linens she looked almost like the rest of the patients. She was kneeling with the nurses, helping hold down a man as one of the healers placed a red hot iron into an arrow wound to cauterize it. A scream and a sigh and the patient had passed out from pain.

"You are supposed to be sitting still and healing." Alaric chided Osra as he neared. Her face looked much better after Duncan had healed her shattered jaw. The purple, splotchy bruise had remained though, as well as any signs of her concussion. Her arm was splinted and bandaged at the wrist to hold it still.

"I am not so hurt that I cannot aid in some way." Osra backed away from the patient after the doctor thanked her and began bandaging the puncture wound. "In fact, I feel as well as ever. I could probably best you in swords right now."

Alaric could call her bluff if he wanted. Obviously she'd strained muscles in her neck the way it had twisted upon the impact of Zacharias' metal gauntlet. The pain from her jaw, though dulled, probably still throbbed and also her wrist was yet to be taken care of.

"Why are you here?" The young woman glanced at him as she washed the patient's blood off her hands in a brown clay bowl.

"I came to see if my friend was mending well."

"So we are friends now?" Osra chuckled slightly, her eyes glinting. "What is happening? Is there to be another battle?" Her blues eyes surveyed the buzzing activity of Light's Hope Chapel.

"Aye, but this time the Argent Dawn will sally forth to meet the Scourge." The elf smirked.

"I have a feeling this is your doing."

"Indubitably." Alaric's grin grew sly. "I convinced Tyrosus and the rest of his council on a plan of attack. The last thing Morde will expect is the bloodied and battered Argent Dawn attacking his rearguard from the Scourge's stronghold in the Noxious Glade."

"The Noxious Glade? It is a deep basin surrounded by mountains on all sides with but one narrow pass to enter by. The blighted ground is thick and the air putrid. Tens of thousands of all kinds of undead aimlessly march that forsaken place. No formation or army has ever marched through it and returned, let alone go unnoticed!" Osra was exasperated.

"I did. At the time I was busy both trying to escape my loyal hunters and outsmart the Scourge's most intelligent liches and death knights."

"So your swagger will carry the day then?"

"I have my ways." Alaric looked out to the muster.

"Then I shall accompany the Dawn." Osra stood.

"You shall not. You will remain here and guard the wounded when you are able." Alaric nearly commanded.

"But—"

"Who will help these people if bandits or undead attack once more? Nearly all the able manpower of the Argent Dawn will march forth. I recommended Lord Tyrosus a special order for you. You are to hold the command over the town whilst we take care of Morde."

"I'm meant to fight, not tell men what to do! I can't have that responsibility!" Osra spoke quickly in hushed tones.

"You're not going to fight until you gain some sense over yourself." Alaric's tone changed darkly. "What you did in the battle, rushing up headlong to attack that death knight was foolish and suicidal. You knew that. Are you trying to prove something?"

"No I—" Osra lost her words. "Zacharias Morde is purportedly the head of the Scourge in the eastern Plaguelands. If I could have killed him—"

"—another death knight or lich would take his cup and don his titles. What was his name? That hero you spoke so fondly of?" Alaric softened.

"Valdar Justax." She said the name proudly. He had never heard it.

"My father was cut down when the Scourge came trying to buy time for my mother and I." The young woman began. "I ran back to join him. I thought I could help. I had some knowledge of the blade from my brothers, but as I returned my mother came to drag me away. That was when an arrow took her in the chest. She told me to run so I did. I ran and ran until I fell in with a group of refugees. I ran from my past and my fears. I was weak." Her voice was strangely flat. No doubt a reservoir of emotion was behind it.

"Valdar saved me and took me into his troop. They were men and women pulled together from the various companies of the Alliance's scattered armies. They were farmers, urchins, and refugees like me looking for a home. We fought the Scourge up and down Lordaeron."

"Valdar was strong…so strong. Even when the world was collapsing he would bring the homeless and weak to his side and give them hope. He shared his strength with them and made them brave. Valdar's heart was kind and generous. I never felt like he was really made for war, but the circumstances made him the man he was. I fought at his side, ate with him, and joked with him for almost a year. I loved him. He died in my arms at the Second Battle of Dalaran." The young lady admitted. From somewhere she had produced the muddied feral dog pennant she wrapped around her arm in battle. Unconsciously her pale thumb caressed the cloth.

"You loved a symbol, not the man. You idealized him." Alaric prodded.

"You wouldn't know. You weren't there." Osra's voice turned to venom. "If it takes the rest of my life I will see his will carried out. I will help free this land from the undead, or else die trying."

_That mission in her head is the only love she holds now. _

"I understand the feelings of loss and love quite well. I have some advice for you. The hate and energy and sense of obligation you carry works better when you are _not _trying to shoulder the weight of the world and get yourself killed. Direct it better. You are smarter and stronger than you think yourself."

"If you truly loved him, then do you think he would be pleased if you died some futile death?" Alaric purposefully did not ask if this Valdar Justax had reciprocated her feelings. He already knew the answer and bringing it up would only enflame her more.

_Only the Light knows how many times she's acted so irrationally due to that silly obligation. Enough with the counseling. _

The woman stared at him incredulously, brushing a lock of hair out of her face.

"I must return now. Here, take this." He handed her a small bag.

_Hopefully she takes my words to heart. It wouldn't serve well for her to try and get herself killed again. _

"What is this?"

"Breakfast: salt beef and black bread. You'll appreciate it later. Alana bela torr'e." The elf gave the customary Sindarin farewell. The words felt smooth and like home.

A sense of loss washed over him. He could never return to Quel'thalas to live. Not after what had happened. Not after what he was going to do.

"This business with the Argent Dawn comes first." He reminded himself. The elf had pinned himself to the Dawn when he'd decided to attend that damned meeting. Foolishness, he told himself. He'd even begun to feel comfortable amongst these people. Perhaps in another life he might've called it home.

The death knight Zacharias Morde was an axe looming over the neck of Light's Hope Chapel. He would have to die.

"Damn her." Alaric said as he joined the columns of iron and wood and flesh.

The Argent Dawn had begun to move, prepared to take their fight to the enemy. Far above the marching men clouds began to brew, and a cold wind swept the land.

Eastern Plaguelands, Brandel Hills

A chilly breath had wrested the air from the previous day's temperate mugginess. Duncan Macallan snuck through the restive and wild hedges to the appointed meeting spot atop a stooped hill known as the Hook's Nose.

The paladin shivered when a fresh gust of nippy wind blew through his armor. He had donned only a light set, opting for speed and quiet rather than full protection. He'd left his vambraces, hauberk, pauldrons, gorget, and leg-plate at the camp.

_With this cold weather on the move our attack will be even less likely. That figures well for us, save the freezing. _

It was mid-spring, but the weather in northern Lordaeron was unpredictable this time of year. As he climbed Hook's Nose his fears were confirmed. In the northern distance a grey wall of clouds bubbled. He had expected it since the spotting the frontal mare's tails clouds the past evening.

Behind lay the remains of the fishing and way-station town of Leather Hook. Not long ago its streets had been bustling with fishmongers with their fresh catch, and whores looking for their own catch. Though not a large town, its pious mayor and influential priests had garnered enough money and favor with the Church of the Light to commission a beautiful temple about a generation ago. It gained renown and fame across Lordaeron for its markedly gorgeous stained glass depictions of the founding of the Church as well as the holy wars against the Trolls.

Duncan shook his head and sighed. All of that was gone now. The glass had been smashed and the church desecrated. The populace of Leather Hook had tried to take shelter amidst the sanctuary of the church. When the Scourge came, it proved that no power protected the temples of the Light. Horrific acts were committed that day. Many of the soldiers of the Dawn would not even go near the remains of the temple.

"Light bless the dead. Keep them in thy graces and hold tightly their souls to thine warmth." The paladin offered a small prayer as he waited in amidst the tangled undergrowth atop the hill.

For a brief moment he wondered if he was still in the Light's graces after his sacrilege during the battle.

_Best not dwell on it. I can still gather the Light and judge my enemies, _he resolved.

Suddenly he saw movement. Four cavalrymen rode hard from the mountains feet toward him. The riders sped up the hill and swung around when they saw Duncan.

"My apologies! We've drew attention." A muffled voice said under his helm. The billowy blue plume marked him as Harryl, the hedge knight from Stormwind. He'd long held a middling command of Light's Hope's horse detachments. Though he looked funny with his missing front teeth, there was no doubt the man was a fighter. The two remaining horsemen wore no visors. One was Yorman, and the other's name escaped him.

"No matter. What have you brought to the plate, Harryl?" Duncan inquired.

"A wraith." The man uttered fearfully. "We were scouting Reynar's Pass into the Noxious Glade when we were set upon. We've lost no man, but the horses are spent."

"Then we make our stand here." Duncan unbuckled his hammer from the bronze girdle slashed around his waist. He felt his own apprehension rising.

"We'll fight that thing?" Harryl choked.

"Aye…and we'll kill it."

The hedge knight had reason to be concerned. Wraiths were among some of the most terrifying minions of the Scourge. Their blades of ice could freeze a man to death in his armor and their frosty breaths steal his wits. The paladin had fought one once, during the Siege of the Sanguine, and received a blow that had left a still-aching scar from hip to nipple. Even then it had taken the aid of another Knight of the Silver Hand to beat back that enemy. The power of the Light burned them like any other undead.

The wraith approached on a ghostly white steed that seemed to stretch and contort with every gallop. The mount's features were hideous and then a cold beauty and then amorphous. The wraith atop was cloaked on a flowing mask of blue mist.

The enemy was upon them before any of them had time to react. Suddenly the wraith had jumped off its mount, the mist spreading to cover the entire hill. It struck at Duncan but the blow parried off the hammer in a shower of blue sparks. He felt his arms absorb the impact, aching at the elbows. Cold air, even colder than the front that was already blowing in, washed over his face and made his teeth chatter. It was freezing. Duncan's first thought was of a warm hearth.

_Much longer here and we'll freeze to death._

The wraith came into full view. Its flesh was pale blue like a frozen man's. The hair was a halo of milky white that floated around his neck and back almost weightlessly. Beneath the mane were two eyes like red embers. Its armor was like shiny black ice. The blade in its hand was a long and glossy bar of blue metal. Little flakes of snow and ice flew from it with every hit. There was none of the usual stink of rot and decay that the undead brought, only cold.

Duncan lifted his hammer above his head but the monster vanished into the mist. Beside him one of the cavalier's heads flew off and into the sky, a geyser of blood following it. The blood froze in midair, crashing down in shards of red glass as the wraith sped by the falling body. The other cavalryman, Yorman, stood as if taken by fear.

_The curse of the wraiths, _thought Duncan. The one he'd fought before had ripped a man's thought from him from a hundred yards and left him until his last comrades were dead. Before the end, they said, all the slaughter that they had witnessed would register. For a warrior, there was no worse death than knowing that you had left your fellows to die.

Harryl met the enemy with his sword. The two blades locked in confrontation just long enough for Duncan to approach from behind. Within the moment though, Harryl's weapon cracked under the unnatural cold. An icy coat began to envelop the knight's arms.

"I smite you, brute!" Duncan's hammer glowed with the fire of the Light as he broke one of the blessed seals. Devout heat and flame rushed forward, taking the shape of his weapon. The holy energy struck even before the physical brunt of the weapon, cracking the shiny guard that encased the wraith. The hammer then hit. Duncan could feel the cracking and straining of the wraith's armor under his weapon. It sounded like the moans and groans of a great glacier.

The wraith fell to the ground. It pushed itself up to look at him. Those red eyes pierced him, stabbing deep into his soul.

"When you return, tell your masters their lives are forfeit." Said Duncan.

The wraith's purple lips twisted in a hideous smile. The mist began to suck itself back toward the fallen wraith.

"You cannot kill what is already dead." It spoke.

"Not even the grave protects my enemies…the Light's enemies."

The monster's smile disappeared with the mist. Suddenly the wraith burst into a thick nebula that dissipated and carried with the wind. Duncan suddenly heaved forward, gasping for air. He'd hidden his exhaustion from the wraith. His body still had not recovered from the battle the other morning.

_A simple crusader's strike took that much out of me…_he thought, surprised. Crusader strikes were basic explosions of holy magic funneled almost instantaneously. They were simply brought forth by devotion to the Light rather than by extensive seals set up before battles or long incanting prayers.

The paladin staggered over to Harryl. The man was unharmed but covered in freezing ice and cursing like a sailor. He helped the knight undress out of the unbending, useless armor then went to aid Yorman. A quick slap sufficed to bring him back to the present.

"You killed it." Harryl sighed in relief.

"Nay. Wraiths are ghostly, ethereal monsters trapped in the skins of frozen water. With the armor gone, they simply return to the nexus of magic from whence they came, ready to be clothed and march upon the warm living again." Duncan explained.

"Then…they'll know we're coming. You _warned _them!" Harryl's face soured in confusion.

"Aye, they'll know…and they'll still lose. There can be no greater victory than one where the enemy's confidence is at its fullest. Shatter that confidence and that is how epithets are gained." Duncan stated.

_But it is also blind idiocy. Alas, I cannot share the full extent of our battle plan with these men. There can be no trust at this time. _

"Aye—Boldstrider." He heard Yorman whisper behind his back.

The two cavaliers caught their mounts which had turned tail at the wraith and saddled up to return to their camp. By the time they returned, Duncan had set a small pyre for Jarvis, the fallen man whom Harryl had identified. There was no burying these days. That ran the risk of resurrection by the Scourge.

"Let's go. There will likely be enemy spies investigating the smoke from the pyre soon." Duncan iterated. The men descended from the hill and retrieved the paladin's charger which he'd tied up at a post near Leather Hook. As the three galloped past ruined hamlets and fallow fields Duncan looked up to the graying skies. A fat white flake hit his nose. He shivered, both from the disturbing damage from the battle at Light's Hope and from the weather.

"Snow…and at the worst possible time."

The snowflakes began to stick, and the land turned to white.

Llachus, The Black Citadel

Zacharias Morde rested his head upon a closed fist. He sat like a king atop a throne made from blackened wood and headstones. A giant fire pit spat out embers from behind him, giving the impression of some deity.

The death knight was seated atop the peak of the floating necropolis pyramid, Llachus. Below the death knight stretched the entirety of the Noxious Glade. For years it had been a stronghold of the undead. The ground was soaked in the Blight, sucking the nutrients and minerals from the soil and feeding every morsel to the necropoli and nexus' scattered around the Glade. The very sky held a pallid, sickly green color from the pollution and smog of the undead factories and plague barrels.

Here and there old remnants of the past remained. At the pinnacle of the pyramid one could spot an old series of granaries and mills with their sails torn from wind and neglect. Over to the left a tiny hamlet had once stood. Only charred skeletons of the buildings remained.

An Alliance army had marched into it with their pennants and heraldry flying high. All the pageantry of its nations and allies had come down the Triumphant Highway intent on re-conquest. The steely flower had advanced in their crisp lines with spears and swords and arrows and magic all at the ready. They were met with the unorganized hordes of undead that rose all about them. The undead tore the petals off the pretty flower, despoiling it and raising what mangled bodies could still be salvaged. 9,000 men had died here on top of the once peaceful commoners and smallfolk.

Kirkessen remembered the day with savor. He had reveled in the bloodshed and partaken in the atrocities.

"A disturbance_**.**_"A Morde announced. The death knight rose from his throne.

"I see." Kirkessen felt the feedback as if it were his own body, his own eyes. The higher tiers of the Scourge's command could sense the movements and actions of their minions everywhere. At first Kirkessen had found it an incessant annoyance like a buzzing in the back of his mind. When he discovered the power that came with it, the buzzing became beautiful singing.

A warding wraith had encountered several horsemen and given chase atop a hill outside another ruined village. There the horsemen had stopped running and turned to fight alongside a paladin.

"Boldstrider." Zacharias licked his lips.

"I see. He is the one that inflicted the damage on you in your little squabble the other day." Kirkessen laughed. His voice echoed as formlessly as his body down the halls of Llachus.

"Quiet, before I rip your parasitic crumb of a spirit from my citadel! I shit on the weak like you." Morde growled. His face twisted and his eyes burned like blue flames beneath his hideous skull helm.

Kirkessen silenced himself. The death knight truly frightened him. Once he might have contended or even held sway over this animalistic upstart when he was whole. Kirkessen was what some would call a ghost. Once a lich that was a hero to the Scourge and the left hand of King Arthas beside Kel'thuzad himself, he had fallen from grace. During an assault on one of the Argent Dawn's strongholds the warrior Maxwell Tyrosus had inflicted such a blow that it had cracked his phylactery (the object containing the soul of a lich, buried deep within them). The crack had allowed his soul to escape the sure destruction of his body, and with the black citadel of Llachus nearby he was able to reconnect himself with the nexus of the Lich King's energies before fully dissipating.

His once majestic black citadel had become a jail the moment Zacharias Morde stepped foot in it. He bound the soul of the lich to the very walls of the floating fortress. Kirkessen had lingered within the confines of Llachus, his former citadel, for years. Though he could still direct the lowest of Scourge minions, his power waned with every passing day. Now he was but a prisoner.

_Imprisoned without a body to suffer, _he thought. _Only my soul torments in this. But…_

If Kirkessen still had flesh, he would have smiled. Soon he would not have to suffer under this pretentious death knight. Soon he would be whole again…

_But he must never know the plan until the time comes, _he reminded himself. If he so much as hinted at his plan to retake Llachus when the death knight was weakened again, he would be rent to a million pieces. That agony would be greater than the torment of slowly fading into oblivion.

He looked inward again to see through the wraith's eyes. The paladin loomed over him after delivering a mortal blow. His eyes were blue-grey and light stubble covered the square of his jaw. Behind him sparse trees hung dark and dead.

"_**When you return to your masters, tell them their lives are forfeit." **_

"A declaration of battle?" Morde brooded.

Similar information began to flood into Kirkessen. Reports from various underlings near Reynar's Pass trickled forth. The Argent Dawn was on the move; all of it.

The death knight felt the reports as well. He burst into laughter. It was a terrible, grinding sound. If Kirkessen had ears, he would have covered them. If he had a face, he would have cringed.

"Now they march to my doorstep. I will line Reynar's Pass with their entrails." Morde unsheathed his blade, _Darkbane. _Brilliant gold and sapphire runes shone down its serrated length, dimly lighting the death knight's scarred face.

"I must also prepare a warm welcome for my old friend, Bartholomew." The death knight continued. Kirkessen recalled the stories the death knight had told him. Once he and Leonid Bartholomew had been closest friends and warriors for Lordaeron before Arthas Menethil returned to Lordaeron. Morde had struck out for power and offered his soul to the Lich King.

When he aided in the assault on Dalaran where Leonid's wife lived, he had sought her out, raped and then flayed her until death. Ever since, the two had engaged in an epic dance of battle and hate that had lasted even beyond death.

"I will meet them now. Enjoy your sojourn in my citadel, lich. Upon my return I may yet yearn for screams." Zacharias smiled an evil smile. His black cloak flapped behind him as he swiveled around toward the exit. Kirkessen remembered the last time his soul had been stretched to its limits by the death knight for sheer pleasure. It was not something he wanted to relive.

_Soon…I must be careful. Soon…_the disembodied lich reminded himself. All was careful calculation. One misstep and all would be lost.

Argent Dawn Column

"They are aware of our approach." Duncan Boldstrider announced as he joined his fellow commanders at the head of the column.

"Good." Alaric responded. "The first step of winning a battle is to let your enemy think they know you."

The elf looked up at the mountains that loomed nearby. The Argent Dawn's force had hugged the mountains all day and night during their march. He then glanced at the forces arrayed behind them. It was a motley force, some thousand or eleven hundred strong. These men and women knew the Scourge though. The terrors of the dead had less effect on hardened veterans. Too many times he'd seen green men run in the face of simple skeletons, triggering an entire route.

Several tauren, muscles rippling and veined, carried the heavy siege equipment. They wore crude skins and frills and had bony décor in their hair. Despite their savage appearance, Alaric had almost grown to admire their strength. Even in the battles throughout Kalimdor that he'd taken part in, they were a noble people.

_A shame they threw in their lot with the Horde. _

Shivering, he pulled his fur cloak closer. The snows drifted gently, slowly blanketing the ground in their essence. The Argent Dawn had provided him with new armor and what winter clothing they had left. At his hip was a dented but well balanced falchion he'd scavenged from the armory.

Luckily they were not too far from their destination. Much more and the terrain would be difficult to cover. Due to the relatively short distance between Light's Hope Chapel and the Noxious Glade, the men were all carrying their own supplies. It was logistics made simple.

"It will be as we discussed then. As we pass Leather Hook, I will take five hundred men along with Alaric and Sir Duncan through the tunnels and into the Noxious Glade. Marshal Chambers and Master Bartholomew shall take the remainder of our force as the frontal diversion. You will turn the Scourge's numbers into disadvantage with the narrowness of Reynar's Pass. You are to hold until you receive the signal." Maxwell Tyrosus reviewed. Snow had caught in his beard and hoarfrost was beginning to form.

_And not a bad strategy at all, thanks to my part, _Alaric sheepishly thought. The majority of the ploy had been his brainchild, right down to the forced march through the night with archer pickets to snipe away wandering undead.

"Gentlemen, I have no need to remind you of the importance of our job today." Maxwell continued. "Zacharias Morde represents one of the most violent and anarchic factions within the Scourge. He is the strongman of the eastern Plaguelands, and by eliminating him and his hierarchy, we go a long way to reclaiming Lordaeron."

"Hopefully with the success of Lord Fordring and the Alliance and Horde offensives in Northrend we can fully win this war at last. May the Light watch over us all."

The commanders nodded and broke. Huge Field Marshal Chambers lumbered off toward his men. He was a soldier's cut to the boot. The elf surmised he had once been a lifetime soldier, and after the fall of Lordaeron had carried on his services here.

The one they called 'Boldstrider' circled around. He had dark circles beneath his eyes, as if something was keeping him up at night. The paladin looked almost in pain, as if slightly wincing at each footstep.

_I indebted to him for helping Osra. Hell, he singlehandedly defeated the Scourge attack. He deserves his epithet. This paladin is powerful indeed. _

Leonid Bartholomew had hung in the background like a shadow. Every time Alaric saw his sagging features and grey flesh, he felt the urge to attack. His fingers twitched and his eyes darted about. It was still hard to imagine or think of this undead creature as one of his own.

_I will have to deal with it…for now. _

The archmage, Teresa disappeared into the snow like a passing shadow. Alaric still misliked that one. Her eyes saw too much.

Maxwell lingered for a moment, his eye catching Alaric.

"Why did you join us?" The Lord Commander of the Argent Dawn asked.

"Perhaps I have some investment in this venture?" Said the elf.

"What exactly?"

"Maybe I simply want to prove my superior strategic mind." Alaric jested. "I will help you for now, but afterwards I intend to resume south."

"To where?"

"Stromgarde."

"Why?"

"Do you speak only in questions?" Alaric grew irritated.

"I speak only in sense. I am wondering why you changed your tune so quickly. A few days in the dungeon cells could not have convinced you of all people. I have heard your tales. 'Strong, willful, and proud', the veterans of your campaigns tell me. Stubborn I say, heh." Maxwell shielded his eyes from a gust of wind and snow.

"I know what is the right and wrong thing to do. Your soldier Osra explained it well." Alaric said.

"I see. Then you should understand why we need you. The Scourge is still strong as ever in the Plaguelands. Though King Varian Wrynn, Warchief Thrall, and Lord Tirion battle in the wastes of Northrend, the threat here remains. We are a forgotten front. We need all aid possible."

"My heart bleeds for your cause." Alaric replied, half sarcastic. "I said I know what is right and wrong. That does not mean I will always follow my heart. I have…other duties to attend to."

"Very well. I thank you at least for helping us in this battle. If you'd still had your magical powers, between you and Duncan we would be unstoppable." Maxwell sighed.

_Aye and the loss of those powers is felt every day. I feel a great gaping hole in me. Once I could sweep aside my foes without lifting a finger. Once I fought on par with the Lich King. I am but a runt compared to what I used to be able to do._

_But in Stromgarde…_

"Alas, my powers were stripped from me. Come now, Lord Tyrosus, we have a battle to win." Alaric surveyed the troops as they passed by.

They were all hard souls, ready to fight and die for their country and cause. The smell of an army washed over him: the smell of the unwashed bodies, the leather, and the greased metal and smoky campfires. The whole affair reminded him of his younger days. He almost felt inspired.

"I will meet you at the fore." Tyrosus told him. His squire brought him his mount, a great grey mare blanketed with a blue and gold cloth saddle. The snow crunched under the horse's hooves.

Two big blue eyes under a half-helm caught his from the midst of the column.

"Osra?" The eyes looked away. "…no. It cannot be." Alaric shook his head. He turned to join the thundering march.

The Argent Dawn advanced north, walking straight into the mouth of the blizzard.

Character Bio: Maxwell Tyrosus

Standing around 6'0, Maxwell Tyrosus gives an air of dashing and bravery that so few men truly exude. He wears a mane of red hair and red drooping mustachios that easily distinguishes him from others. He was born in southern Lordaeron, in the shire of Tarren Mill situated amongst the Hillsbrad Foothills. Despite his age, Tyrosus is still a fierce warrior and likes to fight alongside his common soldiers in the heat of battle. This preference is what led to the loss of his eye during the Third War.

Tyrosus was one of the founding members of the Argent Dawn organization, joining after its paladins split with the Scarlet Crusade. Before, he was a member in one of the local pockets of resistance left over from Lord Garithos' army. Due to both his valiance and intellect he holds command over all Dawn forces in the eastern Plaguelands.

Tyrosus is a devout follower of the Light, and honestly believes that one day his hard work along with that of the organization's will bear fruit in the liberation of Lordaeron and the destruction of the undead Scourge.

Factoid: Bloodline of the Quels

The blood of the Quel (meaning 'High' in elven) family is both storied and bloody.

Legend has it that the family began from a union between the Redstaars and the Sunstriders during the exodus from Kalimdor. Each of these families were amongst the most powerful and legitimate houses that shared rule over the Highborne. Supposedly both these breeds, along with the Quels, helped settle their people in modern day Quel'thalas.

Afterward, in an argument as to whom would rule over the new kingdom, the Redstaars were wiped out by the Sunstriders. The Quels themselves were hunted down almost to a man, but some survived in obscurity to much later regain their rightful place in high elven politics.

While this story is doubtful, it is certain that the Quels have within them bastard blood from the Sunstriders, attributed to the coupling of Aerron Sunstrider and Lysina Tar'Quel 3,000 years ago. Since that time the Quels have held some office within the Convocation of Silvermoon and retained lordship over the lands of Tranquillen.

The last scion of Quel blood is Alaric'Faltron. His father, Ruahal Tenar'Quel, perished forty years ago in the Tragedy of the Weepwood.

A/N: Hey all, don't forget to review after you read! All reviews help spur my imagination and excitement to write. See you all soon!

-Omegatrooper


	6. Chapter 5: Crimson Snows

**Chapter 5: Crimson Snows**

The Soldier

Godfrey Wymar felt sick. It was not the sudden cold weather or the piss poor food the cookies in Light's Hope Chapel prepared. It was not the memory of the three dead men he'd seen that morning, their bodies torn and mutilated that turned his stomach.

"This isn't the same." He said, hearing the misery turn his voice to a croak.

"The same as what?" Edric Archard asked.

"The battle a few days ago. It's just not the same." The fight at Light's Hope Chapel had been more violent and horrible an experience than he'd ever thought possible, but the attack had come so fast he did not have time to think on it.

Only after did the sickening realization of his folly to journey north hit him. There was no glory in this. It was all so real it seemed a dream.

…_or a nightmare. _

Each time one of the undead smashed its weapon against his shield, he could feel the impact jarring into his very bones. His elbow and shoulders still ached and throbbed even a week later. The shield his father had painted for him back in distant Goldshire had been utterly ruined. What was once a green pine sprouting from the top of a drum tower, the heraldry of his minor family, was now broken splinters scattered across Light's Hope. Shame was his for losing Father's work in his first fight, especially since all he did was huddle with the group and wave off blows.

_Am I a coward? _

"Of course." Edric answered. "When you dwell on something you know will happen it is far worse than the unexpected."

_He sounds so confident. _Thoughts of home, green Elwynn Forest, filled Godrey's head.

"This was to be our grand adventure. Now look at where we are." Godrey waved his free hand about. Snow crunched underfoot, mixing with the muck of the Blight beneath it to form a nasty trail that marred the white wasteland. Mountains loomed to either side of them, but other than that it appeared like they were at the ends of the earth. And it was cold...so cold.

Edric laughed, rosy-cheeked. "Aye, we are not yet in the bowels of Icecrown battling Arthas. Remember, old friend that this place once belonged to Lordaeron. King Terenas gave your family and mine, and almost every Stormwinder refuge when the green hordes swallowed our country."

"We owe them this fight. Then we might be shipped off to Northrend with the rest of the Argent Crusade when they realize the worth of the Seven Lucks."

Godfrey swallowed his retort. Lordaeron meant nothing to him. Their company was called the Seven Lucks and they'd set out a hundred strong from the port of Stormwind. Their lot had been low nobles and peasants with gallant Lord Shayne Thunder leading them. All, including Godfrey, planned on bathing themselves in glory. They boasted about being the first swords to reach the base of Icecrown Citadel where the Lich King resided.

Many a jolly boast proved false when men began to die on the road or abandoned their comrades at the first signs of danger. When the ships were marooned on the coast of Dun Morogh they hiked their way to Ironforge. By the time they reached the great chambers of the dwarven capital the armies of the Alliance had already departed, thus they headed north to catch up. By the time they'd rounded into Menethil Harbor they were reassigned to garrison duty at Light's Hope Chapel. After another half moon of tortuous travel, they reached the Argent Dawn's post a third weaker than when they started.

And here they were: marching into Reynar's Pass into the mouth of the Noxious Glade. Stories of the Plaguelands permeated as far west as Kalimdor. However, there were places within the Plaguelands that were far worse than the whole. The Noxious Glade was one of them. A festering open wound on the land itself, it was rumored that the Scourge conducted its blackest works within the bowels of the once peaceful farming valleys. Word had it that the very air was filled with the Plague, so that any man who remained long enough would drop dead and return a ghoul.

In the Glade they said that the most evil of all the Lich Kings legion necropoli resided; Llachus. The Citadel of Screams he'd heard it being called. Others named it the Blightfort. More names preceded the necropolis than Wymar could remember.

_We will strike at the Glade to defeat one of the Scourge's most evil servants! _Lord Shayne had declared as he briefed the troops. Godfrey remembered the man's speech well. It was inspiring and heroic, but the soldier from Goldshire also felt its desperation. Now that this death knight Morde had taken the reins of the Scourge in the Plaguelands he would not stop until all resistance was quashed.

Morde was wrapped in mystery, but from what Godfrey had heard, the man had once been a loyal and powerful warrior that had served Prince Arthas in his early campaigns against the undead. The words used to describe him now were monster, ruthless, and cruel.

If rumor was true, he was a changed man after the burning of Stratholme. Tormented by his crimes during the purging of the city his moods had darkened and a madness gripped him. When Arthas returned from Northrend he disappeared, only to emerge later as one of the Scourge's most powerful death knights during the attack on Dalaran.

Godfrey looked up and down the line. The Seven Lucks were in the front of the vanguard. To his left was Edric Archard, Hugo Winbolt, and Plower Utteridge. To the right was Smiling Trumble, Darrin Goldhawk, and Jester Loveguard. They were all good strong men, but each of them wore a mask to hold back their emotions.

They'd walked what seemed a hundred miles before they reached their destination. To the north the Elfwall Mountains rose and to the south the Bluestones. Sandwiched between the two mighty ranges was Reynar's Pass.

Brown and grey rocks and banks jutted from the snow covered ground. The storms were buffed by the mountains, unable to break through the shield of stone. The ranges cast thick shadows over Reynar's Pass, darkening its features. There were few bushes and less trees here in the crags and poor soil. Behind the mountains the sky held a pallid green color.

_The Noxious Glade…_

The trumpet for general battle sounded. The columns of the Argent Dawn began to morph. Men and women orderly transformed from pillars into squares and long lines.

"Where is the Scourge? We've naught seen but a few ghouls on the entire march up." Smiling Trumble mentioned as the Seven Lucks headed up the advance.

"They're waiting." Godfrey heard Edric say. "They probably watch us even now."

Godfrey peered up the tall buttes and cliffs that surrounded them. Could the undead be surrounding them as they spoke?

The men silenced as they moved forward. Godfrey kept his eyes on the flags before them. One standard was the Argent Dawn's silver sunburst on a black field and the other the red and green checkered hearts and clovers of the Lucks.

_Protect the colors they always say, _Godfrey remembered. Veterans always talked about how their flags were their pride. He still didn't understand that.

For a moment he looked behind him to see if the Dawn really was following. Hundreds of faces, each scared, nervous, and unsure bounced up and down as they walked. Here and there a quiet laugh was exchanged. Steamy breath rose like smoke.

The battle formations advanced until they reached the thinnest point in Reynar's Pass. As they arrived at its boundary the trumpets and bugles sang again and the banners ceased movement. The thin crevice held a hundred men shoulder to shoulder.

A battery of scorpions and ballistae were unlimbered from their horses and brought to the center of the center of the battalion, infantry and cavalry flanking them on the wings. Archers were brought up directly behind the Seven Lucks, who would shield them from the initial brunt of the attack.

"Here we'll negate their numbers. Here we can hold them man-to-man." Edric explained.

_But we're fighting monsters, not men. _

"What's that noise?" Someone asked. Indeed there was a low rumble, like distant buzzing bees permeating through the atmosphere. The smoggy heart of the Noxious Glade was hard to make out, but there was definite movement perhaps a half mile off at the mouth of Reynar's Pass. A foul breeze from the mouth of the Glade breathed on Godfrey's face. It smelled like sweet decay and sour corruption.

Horns, somber and bitter, rang out.

_It sounds like a funeral dirge, _Godfrey's thoughts echoed.

The first elements of the Scourge began to appear behind the miasmic clouds that roiled in the belly of the Glade. There were men, women, and children dead for years with bits of hair and cloth clinging to their yellow bones. Freshly slain ghouls and wights bore the still pussy, weeping wounds that had stolen their life's fire. They're features were stretched and twisted into masks of sadistic humor and horror. Revolting abominations of every kind towered over their lesser allies. When they moved, clouds of fat black and green flies would rise in the air to show crude stitches that held the pale flesh of a hundred creatures together. Other sick experiments and twisted constructions appeared.

Rickety catapults moved forward on spiked wheels painted dark with the blood of the trodden. The grotesque mummified spiders also dotted the ranks of the dead, advancing on man-sized, hairy legs. Tanned, flayed flesh was nailed to giant platforms carried by hundreds of acolytes. Atop were chanting necromancers and black mages reading from pages encrusted with brown, dried blood and brine.

Hundreds of other undead creatures surrounded the platforms. There were slavering reanimated dogs, gnolls, bears, and woodland creatures. Geists, walking lumps of giant fungus, wailing banshees, a lich and two death knights (so far as Godfrey could tell), revenants and more.

Against such an array of enemies what hope was there?

"I didn't sign up for this." Godfrey's voice cracked. Unconsciously he took a step backward, bumping into one of the archers. The grey man shook his head and pushed Godfrey forward back into line.

There was nowhere to run. He was walled in by bodies and the dead. Young Godfrey felt the need to vomit. He felt the need to move his bowels. Suddenly he felt a warm drip from his pants. Piss.

"Be strong, friends." Edric attempted to encourage. His voice betrayed him. Jester cracked an inappropriate joke about whores. Lord Shayne Thunder's voice boomed across the line shouting commands to _'ready spears'. _

Godfrey fumbled with his spear. He preferred the sword.

The undead advanced.

"Archers, prepare volley!" A voice shouted. The bowmen fletched.

"Take aim!"

Following was the longest pause Godfrey had ever felt. He went over every prayer name in the Lexicon of Light.

"FIRE!"

The sky hissed with arrows. Godfrey watched as the iron-headed arrows raced through the sky. He spied movement on the cliffs above. Silhouettes in Argent Dawn colors heaved forward huge black cauldrons. When had they snuck men atop the bluffs? Were they from the detachment that Lord Tyrosus had taken?

All at once the arrows hit the first line of charging Scourge. Hundreds of bodies staggered and fell. More rushed forward—straight into the black oil that spilled from the upturned cauldrons. Many slipped and skidded on the slicks, piling up more bodies. An abomination fell onto dozens of its lessers, crushing them.

A lance of fire shot out from the heart of the Argent Dawn's lines. The oil slicks combusted, sending flame and bodies flying against the cliff walls. A mushroom of smoke rose from the carnage. Godfrey watched as a ghoul attempted to escape the blaze. A shrill cry came from its broken throat before it convulsed and fell to the ground in a heap. Its bones split under the heat and began to turn to ash.

A cheer came from the Argent Dawn lines. Godfrey joined them.

"Teresa! Teresa! Teresa!"

The archmage Teresa stepped forth, the winds whipping her purple and blue skirts and robes around her. Lightning crackled from her fingertips as the graying woman unleashed a torrent of hell on the Scourge.

The clouds broke with five hundred black wings. Stony and misshapen gargoyles descended upon the Argent Dawn, lifting and tossing the hapless soldiers atop the cliff sides. Bodies and blood rained down upon the contingents below.

One gargoyle swooped down toward Godfrey. He ducked. The monster took the man behind him, the grey-haired archer. The wind from its wings nearly knocked him over. Just as it lifted towards the sky again a huge bolt went through its torso, tearing the creature in half. Swiveling scorpions fired in all directions against the cloud of gargoyles.

The young man from Elwynn Forest returned his attention to the fiery wall in front of him. The snow around it had melted and turned to black mud.

"No…" Darrin Goldhawk exhaled in disbelief. The minions of the Scourge continued to push through the flames. Many were still ablaze. The smell of charred flesh and smoke wafted through the Pass. There were so many in fact that they were stomping out the conflagration.

The air hissed again with arrows and ballistae bolts, but the undead had already broken into a full charge.

"Phalanx!" Shayne Thunder's voice echoed through the valley, barely audible through the chaos. The arrows backed off, replaced by more spearmen. Godfrey and his comrades brought their spears to bear along with those behind him and those behind them. A wall of bristling iron spearheads formed, sparkling in the weak light.

At the same time the Scourge hit the frontlines. Spears splintered under the intense pressure. Godfrey felt the impact of something upon the end of his weapon. Despite him gripping with all his strength, the pole slid forward in his hands, burning them. His feet were driven backwards through the snow. The phalanx threatened to break.

"Heave!"

The men began to push back. More spears were brought up. Arrows and magic whistled overhead. Suddenly the Scourge broke apart like a ship against the waves. In a battle with equal field space, they had completely lost the initiative.

The wave receded and then built back up again. This time towering abominations and flesh golems took to the battle. They swept aside the spears, and suddenly the undead were pouring into the lines.

Godfrey tossed aside his shafted weapon, unsheathing a blade. He remembered the old maxim; in groups the spear is supreme. Alone, a blade is a friend.

He felt fear screaming at him to run, but there was nowhere to go but forward. The Azerothian locked onto the nearest enemy, a ghoul whose tattered clothing looked like it was once a bridal gown. He raised the blade, brought it down on the shoulder, retracted and then sliced at the neck.

Hack, slash, parry. The simple combo was repeated over and over a thousand times. Godfrey felt the muscles in his arms burning with exhaustion. His breath frosted and his sweat soaked his underclothes. He didn't know how much time had passed when the last enemy fell.

Men were screaming in pain. Some called out the names of their lovers, others their mothers and fathers.

Godfrey retched right there. Edric appeared beside him, covered in blood.

"Not mine." He said when he saw his friend's face.

"Thank the Light." Godfrey said miserably.

"We need to reform. They are coming back." Edric said, surveying the front.

"How many more times?" Wymar wiped his lips and spat.

"Don't know."

Sure enough, the Scourge advanced again like a reloaded fist. Godfrey didn't much remember what happened next. It all became routine. Hack, slash, parry. Find a new enemy. Avoid the big or magical ones.

At one point he saw Lord Shayne on the ground, clutching at his bowels. They'd been torn open and his intestines were flung about, dying the snow red. Two squires knelt next to him, warding him as he died. There was no distinction between high or lowborn on the battlefield. It was simplicity at its finest.

What seemed like hours and days passed. Time ebbed and flowed. Godfrey simply gave up trying to understand it all and simply _acted._ He lost count of how many waves the enemy had hit them with.

At last time and sense returned when he saw the Seven Luck's standard fall to the ground. The bearer was struck through the eye with a grooved spine. Anger boiled up inside the Azerothian. He forgot his fear and dismay.

Staggering over to the fallen bearer, he grasped handle to the clover and heart banner and lifted it.

_Protect the colors, _the veterans had told him when he said he was off to war. Godfrey never understood what they meant until now.

The battle had devolved into anarchy.

"Rally!" Godfrey tried to say. His throat was too parched. He tried again, with little success. Waving the flag about got the attention of some who began to clump about him.

Then something punched Godfrey Wymar in the chest. Stunned, he looked down to see no arrow shaft, sword, or anything. There was only a smoking crater in his chest. Blood began to gush out of the wound and he collapsed. Pain enveloped him and his vision began to turn red.

Godfrey felt arms around him, propping him up. He looked up to see Edric Archard, brown eyes full of tears.

Out of the lines of the undead stepped a single figure, seven foot tall and clad in grey, pockmarked armor. He looked like the monstrous skeleton of some long-dead animal in that armor. An outstretched arm ended in smoking fingers pointed at Godfrey.

_I died for a flag, _he realized. What a notion…

The last thing that danced before Godfrey Wymar's eyes was the shield his father had painted for him.

The Lioness

Osra's dream from last night cycled through her head again. At first it had been fuzzy, but the nightmare had persisted and for years now it had recurred.

In it she was back home. Everywhere the young woman looked the grasses were green and the mountains capped sparkling white. The vast expanse of the Alterac Uplands in the distance was dotted with happy villages and hamlets. The orchard behind the barn was ripe with their peach crop. She'd picked one for her betrothed. Alec always loved peaches.

Alec chewed the peach with relish, the juice from the fat fruit running down his chin. Suddenly he screamed and clutched his throat. Osra screamed for help, but no one was around. When she looked back at Alec, she saw that his face had turned blue and his flesh had begun to fall from the skin. Underneath was Valdar with his chestnut brown mane and scraggly stubble. He grasped at her, biting, ripping, chewing. A million beetles and worms clawed their way out of his mouth and eyes, burying her alive. That was when she awoke.

Osra shivered all morning whilst the march continued, both from the cold air and the dream. The memories tumbled back through her whenever she had that dream. She remembered how relieved her father was when she had finally accepted a proposal. The union was necessary for her family to survive with her brothers Thore and Eulas off fighting for the Alliance. She'd told herself she might even get more train with her sword in when she didn't have so many duties.

Farm girls were meant to marry young, around fourteen or fifteen after their flowering. She had been eighteen when she at last accepted one of her many suitors, Alec. He was butchered by the undead along with her parents before any of the marriage ceremonies could commence. She'd been fond of Alec but had not loved him. The only man her affections ever truly belonged to had been Valdar, and he too was gone now.

After Osra had sent Valdar's broken, lifeless body down the Averass River towards the sea she went north looking for answers and purpose. Joining the Scarlet Crusade had probably been the biggest mistake of her life. The things she'd seen done and not attempted to stop still stung her.

_Black thoughts for a white day, _Osra mused. The snow had continued to fall and was now piling around her ankles. Her feet ached with cold. Soon they might be numb. Most of the soldiers hadn't packed for cold weather. The front swept through with little warning, sucking the warmth from the air and from her flesh. She took off the necklace that was touching her bosom to avoid frostbite. The metal locket had been handed down from woman to woman in her family for generations.

Osra had left Light's Hope Chapel as the last soldiers in the column departed. Her wrist too was a throbbing pain, but she'd taped several sticks under her chainmail coat to hold her hand mostly in place. Someone had told her how severe her injuries had been before Sir Duncan had healed the worst of them. He had saved many lives that day, and was the talk of the camp.

She'd snuck out of the field hospital and donned some light armor, wrapping it all up in a thick, musty fur cloak. The young woman did not want to appear herself. Among all the soldiers, even the cooks and camp followers, there were few females in the Argent Dawn. These women were mostly either of another species, like the night elf Rayne, or hardened commanders like Archmage Teresa. There was a visible lack of her sex serving in the ranks.

"Perhaps I am a fool like Alaric said. But fool or not, I'll not be left out of this fight." She told herself stubbornly. And so she had marched with the Argent Dawn. The force had traveled deep into the night. They'd camped on the hard ground beneath bushes and dead trees for two hours before moving again. The only thing that had slowed the troop had been the snows. Icicles clung to spears and beards were lined with white.

The rangings she usually performed were weeklong ordeals in the wilderness to scout the positions of Scourge and Scarlet Crusade positions. She evaded open contact and reported new locations for safe houses, stashes, and even supply trains to come in from Stormwind and Ironforge. Even though they'd been gone the better part of a day, she still felt as if she'd completed three rangings in a row. The swordswoman wished to sit by the fire again to warm her.

White sheets had covered the world. At one point they passed a town and she'd not even noticed until she stepped through what was once someone's house. The walls had been blasted down and the rubble buried beneath the crisp, crunchy snow. After they passed the town the column split up into two smaller troops. Hers had wheeled to the north east, marching toward the Bluestone Mountains. The other disappeared into the snow drifts heading north.

Osra flanked the column like an outrider, watching for any signs of a sneak attack. Earlier three charred ghouls had emerged from the snow and rubble in a town they'd passed through and injured a warrior. After that men were more wary. Though the heavy snows might blind and hold the restive undead at bay, they certainly did not stop them.

"Hey, woman." A arrogant voice called out. "No need to talk by yourself. Come 'ere and lemme hear that tongue of yours flap."

_The gall, _she thought. Osra felt a flush creeping into her already cold-reddened cheeks. She kept her head down and her hood up though. The snow had broken momentarily, but the hood was not only for the weather but to hide her identity.

_Only some cold jackanapes looking for distraction. _

"Why don't you mosey on down back to Light's Hope. You can help keep my tent warm when I return with Zacharias Morde's skull as my cock piece." Another man spoke up. This one's voice was high and wiry, but full of the same cut. His face was mousy and covered in reddish-brown growth. The two men scuttled up toward her past the other troops.

"Some man give you that bruise?" The mar on her face had not yet fully healed.

She ignored them.

"You deaf woman?"

"Maybe the snow's gone to your head n' made you white-mad. I like a little crazy with my pretty." The second man moved into pace beside her. The other one moved to her left.

"I like those eyes of hers. Got some fight in 'em."

"This is not time for your crude humors." Osra said. She continued to scan the woods as she walked.

"I always thirst for a woman after some bloodletting. Let me get a little sample." The mousy looking man slipped a hand under the fur cloak and cupped her buttocks. Rage flew through Osra. Instantly she produced a dirk and let it fly towards the mousy man's throat. She stopped just as it began to draw bloody beads from his weak little chin.

"I'd kill you if you weren't needed for the battle. Next time you do that...you'll lose a little more than some blood." Her dirk slid down below his beltline and pressed.

The man squirmed away and grunted a response before melting back into the column. His friend joined him before shooting a look that said '_You shouldn't be here'. _She didn't care. For years she'd dealt with the same sexism. Her skill and prowess would prove her equality. They must've been green recruits; undisciplined and unruly. Still, fury roiled through her and further darkened her mood.

Another hour passed and the Argent Dawn brigade continued to march toward the mountainsides. The ground had become rocky and inclined beneath the snow and many had begun tripping on unseen pitfalls and crevices. Despite injury none dared slow or stop. If they did they'd be lost in the storm, perhaps forever.

_How deep into the Bluestones are we going?_

Osra tried to see through the thick, falling flakes. Baldcut Pinnacle was barely visible. The landmark, visible for dozens of surrounding miles, was not quite as bald as it usually was though. Its caps jutted above the clouds, but the flanks of the mountain were iced over. The side facing south was almost entirely a flat, vertical plane of grey and black rock, giving the mountain a strange, half-triangle look. Many a man had tried to solve the mystery of the Baldcut Pinnacle and its strange shape, but none of the theories had ever proven conclusive.

Great bluffs of pink and blue-veined granite and now loomed to both sides of the brigade. The snow had blessedly not yet returned. Above the cliffs the necks of mountains seemed to pinprick the clouds all about them.

Abruptly the march halted. Ragged cliffs rose from above the front of the column to meet with the deep canyon they were already moving through. There were a few minutes of silence and trepidation before the men and women of the Argent Dawn began moving again.

Osra blinked in disbelief. Even though she couldn't see above the men in front of her, it seemed like the Dawn was marching straight into the canyon wall. There were a few men, maybe a dozen, who had broken off from the main force and were scaling the steep walls with grapnels and hooks. They also brought up oil cauldrons black as their contents, hoisting them up with ropes.

As the lines of men and women squeezed through the thin walls of the canyon, Osra caught a glimpse of what was before them. A tunnel, not six feet by six feet, carved its way through the base of the mountain. The Argent Dawn's soldiers were traveling _under _the mountain into the Noxious Glade.

"How'd we not know 'bout this earlier?" Osra heard someone mutter. She wanted to know how the undead didn't know about it.

As she approached the entrance to the dark cave she spied a set of heavy boulders that blended in perfectly with their surroundings pushed off to the side. Scraggly brush and thorn bushes covered most of the entrance like a spread of razor-like ivy, further camouflaging the cave.

Fiery Lord Tyrosus and handsome Duncan the Boldstrider stood at the edge of the caves, watching the first of their men enter. Then she saw Alaric Faltron'Quel. He was dressed in a vest of shiny, oiled mail under a black and silver hauberk that was clasped with two roundels in the shape of starbursts. Draped over his shoulders was a thick black bear cloak that nearly covered the rump of his horse as well. His mane of sandy blonde hair was pulled back behind his head.

_So this is your doing, _Osra thought. _You found this place when you passed through, running from your pursuers. You enjoy your caves, don't you Alaric? Would that you were a bat. _The young woman remembered the 'castle' from the day she'd met him.

The elf was an intriguing mystery if anything. He'd refused to open up his past in detail, but she knew that if she kept at it she might eventually convince him otherwise. Though he seemed to be in his own world, constantly ridiculing everything around him, he made good company. Though he was not as rugged as Duncan Macallan, he had a certain elegance and comeliness to his hawkish features.

Sir Duncan's full armor was a thing of beauty. It was wrought from adamantium smiths deep in the heart of Ironforge. The whole set seemed to flow smoothly together. Such was the specialty of the dwarves in their metalwork. His helm crested over his head in the shape of a silver winged saint. A wide-brimmed gorget protected his throat. His shoulder pauldrons seemed to be carved from giant blocks of steel resembling two holy books. Their open pages were carved with gold-filled inscriptions from the Lexicon of Light. The trim of the armor, including his scaled cuirass, was enameled in dark red. A white cloak made from snow fox pelts fell behind him, completing the image.

When his eyes swept past Osra she flushed and looked away, unconsciously brushing her bangs out of her eyes.

Osra shook her head and focused on the trail ahead. The canyon walls closed in almost to her shoulders. Suddenly she was hit by a blast of moist, foul smelling air from the cave. The humidity was so palpable and thick, and the smell so foul, that the she felt like she was choking on a fetid broth.

A ripple of hesitation and fear spread through the Dawn as it neared the caverns. Osra felt it too. Who knew what was on the other side of that dark, dank hole? The cave looked just large enough to fit an average sized man through without stooping over. A bout of claustrophobia washed over Osra. She swallowed it down and stepped up to the mouth of the cave when it was her turn. The similar nausea of the pre-battle also began to creep up now as well. She pulled her hair back so it wouldn't fall into her eyes.

Osra gripped the scabbard of her sword so tight her knuckles turned white. It was a nervous habit she'd developed over the years. She took a deep breath, was handed a torch, and stepped forward into the deep darkness beneath the mountain. Then she lost all track of time.

The cavern had stretched forever, a dismal, yawning hole. At last light had appeared at the end of the cramped pit. When she stumbled through her eyes were pained by the sudden appearance of the sun, however weak it was behind the unnatural greenish clouds of the Glade. It was past midday, judging by the sun's position. They'd been in the caves for about an hour.

The ground was a stinking blight that stretched to the hazy mountains miles and miles away. Ziggurats and crude slaughterhouses were silhouetted through the mist, dotting the horizon like sores.

The trees that were left were skeletons. They were skinny and drooping, as if the dead soil had leeched their matter away. Though the young lady had been in the Plaguelands for a long time, she'd never seen so thick and evil a blight. Nothing would ever grow on this ground again. She could feel its taint even through her boots, as if it were trying to suck the life out of her.

The sound of battle echoed across the Glade. Distant screams echoed through the mountains like ghosts. Explosions and bloodletting filled the ears of the Argent Dawn. Battle had already been joined by the other detachment of the Dawn.

_And so we will take them in the rear. Alaric'Quel, you are truly full of surprises. _

As the lines formed there was no talking, no banners, no fanfare. Their army had no horns and no shouting. Osra glanced around. She peered into the eyes of her comrades. There were sinners and pious men. There were thieves, farmers, smugglers, merchants, cobblers, brick-men, and a hundred other things. Each person had fear in their eyes, but also determination. They knew they were not supposed to be in this place. There was no room for the living in the Noxious Glade.

"This is a death sentence." Someone whispered ever so slightly.

"There is no turning back." She replied, clasping the boy's shoulder. He was no more than eighteen, the same age she'd been when the Scourge took her parents and home from her. Sadness and remembrance washed through her.

The Argent Dawn went forward, hugging the mountains. The farther north they went the snow returned, first on the mountains then on the blighted ground. The sounds of battle grew closer.

There were no undead anywhere in sight as they moved in the shadow of the mountains. Perhaps's they'd all been pulled to defend the attack at Reynar's Pass? The Scourge had no way of knowing of the backdoor Alaric had hidden.

When smoke and fire rose from the mountains, Osra knew they had arrived. Alaric'Quel appeared from the rear of the column, meeting Duncan and Lord Tyrosus at the fore. He motioned forward and unsheathed a falchion. A vicious smile appeared on his face as Tyrosus nodded. He scaled a hill in the path of the Argent Dawn to see what was beyond it. Then he disappeared, running down the far side.

_The enemy is up ahead...what would you be thinking, Valdar? _Osra drew the remnants of Valdar's 'Dogs of War' flag from a pouch and tied it around her arm. She always wore it when in battle.

Ever so slowly the Dawn crested the hill. Osra tightened her grip on her scabbard when she saw what lay before them.

The Bound

After receiving the echoes of the defeat of the wraith, both Morde and Kirkessen had been surprised and gladdened by the Argent Dawn's decision to march forth and meet him in battle. The human's feeble battle lines held for now, but it was only a matter of time before they were battered away.

Able to read the death knight's mind like an open book, Kirkessen could sense his disappointment. The Argent Dawn's forces were far smaller than he'd initially believed. Either the Scourge had inflicted far more damage in the assault on Light's Hope Chapel than he'd believed, or some portion of the Dawn remained at their base as a garrison. The lich knew that there was no other entrance into the Noxious Glade...save for one tunnel that led under the mountains to the south.

Kirkessen could experience the death knight's senses and feel his thoughts, but like all the other Scourge connected by the web of magic that the Lich King weaved between them all, he could exert no control. With no physical body and the inability to assume another's plaguing him, the one-time lich was but a prisoner bound to the walls of the black citadel, Llachus.

He could _smell _rank fear in the air through Morde. The death knight's thoughts resounded through the lich as if they were his own. Soon they would be more food. His body would grow stronger with each of theirs. They would be amongst the first to swell his numbers.

He watched the battle unfold from Morde's eyes. Death knights had the ability to shield themselves from others of equal station, but Zacharias sadistically continued to allow his one-time ally to taste his experiences. It was akin to allowing a parched captive to gaze upon a cool, clear river, but not allow him to leave his cell. It was torture of the worst kind. Kirkessen preferred to have been flayed. Even that death would have been quicker and sweeter.

The lich had an escape though. He would just have to sit still for a little while longer. When Zacharias Morde's attention was absorbed, he would strike. Kirkessen slipped back into a body near Reynar's Pass.

The smell of smoke, sweat, rot, shit, and blood permeated the frigid air. The Argent Dawn's lines were battered but not wholly broken. Somewhere in those ranks was Maxwell Tyrosus. That man would be the second to feel the revenge of Kirkessen the Zealous when he regained mortal frame. It was because of him that this agonizing predicament had been beset upon the lich.

_That red hair would burn nicely, but not so much as to kill him. His death will be a slow thing that takes years. _

The lich harbored fantasies of how he could kill Tyrosus when he was whole again. With the powers of necromancy at his fingertips, Kirkessen would keep the man alive past any natural point to extend his suffering. He would break Tyrosus' psyche through pain and then simply leave him to starve to death. Madness would be his lot. Then that damned man would serve well as fodder for the glorious Lich King.

First the lich would have to deal with Morde. The death knight strong as an ox and built like a mountain. His necromantic arts were somewhat feeble, but his proficiency in runic magic was second to none. He was cunning, even a bit mad, and had an animal-like instinct to him. Morde did not care for the mighty and glorious Lich King. He simply used power given to him to inflict maximum chaos and anarchy.

Zacharias cut through the Argent Dawn with ease, utilizing both his power and magic. Snow flew about his black leather boots while gore drenched his face. There were none who could stop him. The mage attempted to launch a barrage of arcane magic but the death knight used his magic throw her against the cliff wall. She fell and disappeared in a crowd of tauren. The cowmen raged and charged at Zacharias.

The death knight slipped between two of them, hamstrung one, and unleashed a blood glyph upon the other. The mark swept up the tauren's leg through his veins, swelling them until they exploded simultaneously. As Zacharias walked out from the red rain the warriors of the Argent Dawn began to shy away from him. Even the remaining tauren pulled back, fear in their eyes.

Only one advanced. Kirkessen instantly recognized the huge axe, 'Death's End'. Its long, half-moon edge rippled like no other weapon of its kind. Forged by dwarves long ago, the arcanite reaper had cut down humans, orcs, and of course, undead. It had been handed down from various heroes in Lordaeron's history until it reached its current champion.

Leonid Bartholomew pushed men aside to reach the front of the lines. The men and dwarves and other races of the Argent Dawn drew back to give Bartholomew space. He moved through the formation like a shadow. Their faces did not hold disgust or repulsion for the walking corpse in their midst, but a silent reverence. Bartholomew was a hero in life and death.

Rage twisted his already half-rotted face into an ugly grimace. Kirkessen grew anxious. Had he a body, it would have tensed.

Morde, in his half-madness, had always muttered about the inevitable battle between him and Bartholomew. The two monsters, once men, shared a long history. They'd fought over countless battlefields together, but the one thing that had driven them apart was a simple woman. What had come after was a tragic tale that led to this day.

"Old friend, we can finally mete out our fated battle." Zacharias' smile was like an animal's.

"I am no friend of yours. You have no friends save the dead." Bartholomew hissed.

"I see a corpse pulsing with the magic of the Scourge in front of me." The death knight goaded.

"My undead condition is a malady. I shall make yours perpetual."

"Perhaps I shall meet with Adrianna again. She can comfort me for eternity, seeing as to your…condition." Morde's grin became a sickening, sadistic thing.

Hate and rage seethed off of Bartholomew. "You raped her. You killed her. You took everything from me and more. I will see your end or I will grind my own bones to dust."

The world seemed to fall away save for the two monsters. The eyes that watched melted away and the cold seemed a numb, distant thing. Even the battle that had raged moments ago seemed to pause. Kirkessen forgot himself for a moment and focused on the terrible havoc about to be had.

Suddenly they were rushing at each other, snow and mud kicked up by their boots. Their weapons, _Darkbane _and _Death's End _slammed against one another in showers of sparks. The sound of grinding, clashing metal filled the empty air.

_If he can kill Morde then it will be all the easier, _the Lich thought. His hopes soared.

The two combatants went back and forth, dancing in a wide circle with such speed Kirkessen had trouble following their motions. Bartholomew was so agile and deft in his motions that the death knight had no time to cast his runic magic.

Carnage swirled around them, the living meeting the dead with steel and wood and wisps of magic. The hell of war...Kirkessen felt that this was true beauty.

The moment came crashing down in an instant though. Bartholomew and Zacharias were backed up, maybe ten feet from one another. Simultaneously they charged, weapons raised. The death knight's blade shimmered with runes while the edge of the warrior's axe shone with the sun's light. Neither weapon would intercept the other. The fighters would aim for a quick end to their fight.

Blood flew from Zacharias Morde's shoulder and chest in an arc where the axe bit deeply through his armor. The death knight fell to the ground with a curse, his equipment and armor clattering.

Bartholomew stood still and raised his head to the sky...before his neck seemed to split nearly in half. No blood emerged from his wound, only thick, purple embalming fluid. It dribbled down his chest. The hero of Lordaeron fell to his knees. He mouthed words, but no sounds came.

Slowly, Zacharias stood. Blood flowed in a waterfall from his wound, but steps were steady nonetheless. Silence filled the battlefield as the death knight grabbed Bartholomew's hair and with a swift tug tore off his head. Morde lifted the head high for all to see, the fluids dripping onto his face.

_Ah well. The plan shall continue anyway. _

"Behold your Revered! His fate awaits you all!" Morde shouted in the faces of the attackers.

The men and women of the Argent Dawn stood in disbelief for a second. Their hero and one of their commanders had been slain. Someone howled in anger. A scream went up, then an oath. The battle continued almost as if it had never stopped. The fighters of the Argent Dawn fell into bloodlust, battling even harder than they had before. Kirkessen had seen such an event before; on the slopes of Blackrock Spire after Orgrim Doomhammer slew Lord General Anduin Lothar.

The thrumming of trumpets and bugles cut through the din of battle. The telepathic connective webs between the Scourge in the Noxious Glade were suddenly paralyzed with confusion. Kirkessen could sense the uncertainty and befuddlement coming off of Morde.

_Perfect..._

A force, perhaps five hundred strong, sliced into the rearguard of the Scourge army. It was not a large contingent, but regardless of its size, the surprise of its attack was just what the lich needed. Leading it was an elf, a paladin, and fiery Maxwell Tyrosus. All the pieces were in place.

It seemed that the Argent Dawn _had_ known of the tunnels beneath the Bluestones. He had suspected as much. Now they were exploiting the tactical advantage brilliantly. Kirkessen felt Morde searching the Scourge's web-lines to glean what was happening. He had not the slightest idea of how the Dawn had snuck into the Glade.

_It is time. _

At the moment of his binding, Kirkessen sealed his remaining power within the walls of Llachus. Now, he broke the seals. It was all or nothing. Utilizing the confusion of the situation, the lich suddenly imposed his control over the walls of Llachus. With the black citadel under his control, he would be able to usurp the Scourge's minions from Morde and his followers. The citadel of Llachus became his body, and soon the Noxious Glade would be returned to the Lich King's rightful captain; him.

_"Glorious." _Kirkessen said as he felt his control being exerted across Llachus. He had broken free of his prison! The euphoria and ecstasy of his sudden break-out almost caused him to forget his objective. The lich would never had been able to attempt such a maneuver had his captor been closely watching.

Using his power to draw upon the mana pools deep in the bowels of Llachus, he folded time and space. Llachus disappeared from the Noxious Glade for a brief lapse. It reappeared in a flash of light above Reynar's Pass. The square kilometer base of the magnificent edifice blotted out the sun, casting a shadow across the whole Pass.

The battle below seemed such a little thing, but from this distance Kirkessen could control all the Scourge in the area using the powerful Ley-lines from the citadel. Zacharias Morde, ever the incautious fool, had accumulated _all _of the Scourge's strength near the Pass to beat off the attack. Now they were all his...

"You broke the cage. So your hands held enough strength to reach the keys." He heard Morde's voice echo through his thousand ears on the ground. Now he knew what was happening. What the death knight had done to his spirit had been akin to locking it in a cell but leaving the key-ring within an arm's length. It was another torture Morde had put him through; to be so close yet so far. Now the runes that held his spirit from touching the physical world were broken.

"I am reclaiming what is mine. The lich king shall punish you for your insolence in chaining your superior!" Kirkessen retorted. The lich cast a spell using the mana pools deep in the bowels of Llachus. Instantly the Zacharias was sealed from the Scourge's hierarchy with arcane spell casting in a mockery of the runic cage he'd constructed for the lich. . It was poetic justice.

The death knight abruptly found himself surrounded by enemies; not only the Argent Dawn, but also his former minions. The abominations and wraiths and skeletons all turned to encircle the wounded death knight.

Zacharias Morde fought back, slavering like an animal as he drank in the violence. Kirkessen watched in slight disgust. Freed and no longer the lesser, he could see the death knight for what he truly was; a savage brute, more animal than human whose sole enjoyment was the anarchy of war.

"You are the farthest thing from what the beloved Lich King wishes." Kirkessen chided as the undead continued to pile around Morde.

"Our god preaches order and obedience that derives from a single throne. You are a mad dog, and I will put you down like one." If Kirkessen had lips, they would have curled in satisfaction.

As the masses of undead flesh and bone covered Zacharias Morde, Kirkessen felt his victory growing closer. The Argent Dawn had but two pitifully small forces against his thousands of undead. Weight of numbers alone would crush them.

A frosty explosion rippled through the Scourge's lines. Was it the mage? No...

"But-how?" Kirkessen gasped. Morde stood amongst hundreds of frozen corpses, both Dawn and Scourge. He was not supposed to be this powerful. _Darkbane _was outstretched, pointing towards Llachus as it floated helplessly above the battlefield. Mana formed like a green hurricane around the blade.

Kirkessen knew what was coming. Runic magic simply shunted raw arcane power into complex patterns that represented the geographical paths traversed by the Ley-lines. In casting spells, the caster skipped that essential step and forced the world's natural magic to their will, bending and threading it where they willed. Casting this way was what caused corruption for the spell casters due to their hubris over nature.

What Zacharias Morde was doing blurred the border between runic magic and arcane spell casting. Kirkessen had seen Morde forge his sword when he first came to Llachus years ago to pledge himself to the Lich King. Ever craving more power, he carved a series of runes and glyphs that used the energy that filled them

to forcefully gather more magic than the death knight could ever have done on his own. The result was his own brand of magic.

"You cannot! If you destroy Llachus, you will not have the mental fortitude regain control of the Scourge!" Kirkessen wailed. The mana pools had all been used for his spells. There was no escape.

"I do what I will."

"THIS IS IMPOSSIBLE!" Kirkessen screamed. Damn him. So much time and effort...so much pain and suffering...all for naught.

"Your last words, lich. Taste the irony."

Kirkessen felt Llachus crashing into the snowy peaks above Reynar's Pass as the powerful rune coursed through the walls and core of the black citadel. At least he could have the satisfaction that his falling citadel might crush Zacharias Morde.

As the massive pyramid structure began to fall apart, Kirkessen's spirit disintegrated as well. What Maxwell Tyrosus had begun by cracking his phylactery, the destruction of Llachus was completing. The pain was worse than the lich could ever imagine and he could not even scream.

The Exile

The elf swung his sword again, this time slicing cleanly through the neck of his enemy. The skeletal construct fell awkwardly. A thunderous sound filled the air. In the sky, the black pyramid began to fall.

Alaric shielded his eyes as the flying fortress broke up against the mountainside. Green flame bust from its innards and thick clouds of greasy, black smoke filled the air, turning the sun into a distant, red thing. Debris and boulders fell from a thousand feet up, raining down upon both the defenders and attackers.

The commanders of the Dawn had told him the huge necropolis was called 'Llachus'. It was the central focal point for the command structure of the Scourge in the eastern Plaguelands. Its indomitable walls had watched as the armies of the living were defeated time and time again. It was witness to the fall of the mightiest of castles and the most innocent of hamlets. Now it's ruins slid against the side of the Bluestone Mountains, leaving fiery wreckage behind it.

"What in the name of..." Maxwell Tyrosus' single eye was large with surprise and shock. Alaric thought he saw tears in the side of the eye.

"I never thought I'd see the day. That damned thing has commanded the death of more innocents than I can imagine."

The undead army before them had already begun to scatter. The bodies of the slain, both living and Scourge, remained to carpet the snowy ground. Alaric surveyed the fields, wiping his brow. The heat of battle triumphed over the cool air, and the havoc at the mouth of the Pass was palpable even at this distance.

With no direction from the central nexus, the Scourge minions either scattered as birds fleeing a child or fell upon anything that moved close to them. Those that still fought continued to attack the Dawn's front lines, but without order they would be quickly mopped up. Men began to break ranks to chase down the enemy.

"Attack!" Tyrosus shouted. The warriors of the Argent Dawn surged forward with renewed vigor.

"No..." Alaric said under his breath. "No advance!" His voice rose to a ragged yell.

The necropolis toppled end over end down the mountainside. It hit the peak of a smaller crag and lurched unpredictably to the side. Moving in the direction it was now, its fall would come to an end at the base of the mountains...right on top of them. Someone curse as the shadow of Llachus overcame the entire army.

The elf watched helplessly as the stone and metal rain fell all about him, crushing hapless soldiers and undead alike. As a panel of black casting flew at Alaric's head, he instinctively reached out to protect himself with a shield of magic only to feel the emptiness inside. He swept the shielding aside with his vambrace.

What was left of the main body of the necropolis smashed into the ground with the horrific sound of tearing and twisting metal. Alaric ducked down as a shockwave of snow swept across the one-time farming fields of the Noxious Glade as if an avalanche. The tremors threw him off his feet and onto his back, knocking out the wind from his lungs. The world blacked out.

When Alaric came to he was covered in snow and ice. Legs numb, he sat up and brushed himself off. Stumbling, the elf propped himself up against a piece of massive saronite that must've belonged to the outer shell of the necropolis. (Saronite was one of the Light-forsaken metals native from Northrend. Pitch black and a holder of strange properties like the reduction of magic against its outer crust and the induction of such the inside, supposedly it was crafted from the blood of an Old God, but such tales were for old women and shivering drunks.)

The elf looked up. Snow, dust, and smoke still blotted out the sun, casting an eerie pall across the land. Alaric aimlessly began to meander, still in a state of shock from the experience. His head rang and the sounds of the world were dimmed out. There were distant screams in the fog, but he could not tell if they were a food or a mile away. Survivors roamed in the gloom like zombies. They were obviously stunned from the experience.

_A disaster. I must find Tyrosus. We need to rally them. _

He traversed the white landscape, moving toward the wreckage of Llachus. As he neared the fallen fortress the dead grew thicker upon the ground. He remembered being thrown...maybe the Argent Dawn's Lord Commander was still alive.

So many men and women that had minutes ago been full of life and vigor lay scattered about. Alaric felt a guilt crawling up in his gut. He'd been the one to lead them in here, so confident and full of himself.

_Father...have I failed again?_

He encountered a body that had been pierced through the heart. The blood was fresher than those that had fallen before the destruction of the necropolis. Again, he found a man-at-arms with a still-bleeding sword wound through his heart. Then another...

"What is this?" Alaric muttered. "These men were well and alive until moments ago."

_Something must've survived the crash..._

The blankets of snow were dotted and interrupted with stones and bits of the necropolis small as cobblestones and large as an kodo.

Suddenly he spotted Maxwell Tyrosus rising from the snow, his fiery hair contrasting with the white wastes. A black shadow appeared behind the man. Its hand reached out and grabbed him by the throat. Tyrosus gave a startled gasp, but was cut off as a huge, runeblade plunged into his heart. Blood jetted out in steady squirts.

"You will...be judged. Sooner-or later." He said in a ragged whisper.

"I don't care, just give me your soul." The familiar voice whispered, frothing with spit. The Lord Commander of the Plaguelands, Helm of the Argent Dawn, Sunburst of the East, struggled for a moment in pain before going limp. Zacharias Morde emerged from the shadow, throwing Tyrosus' body like a rag doll.

"Morde, you son of a bitch!" Alaric roared. He felt his concentration sharpen. He felt his sword hand twitch. Realizing he still grasped his falchion, he charged, meeting the death knight with a flurry of strikes.

"You didn't even give him a chance to fight!" Their faces were so close Alaric could smell the black knight's fetid breath.

"Ah, and the other prize. Alaric'Quel, tell me, why should I risk leaving him alive? Cut off the head and the body dies." The death knight's voice rumbled. He swept his finger through a puddle of blood where Tyrosus lay and splashed it over one of the runes near the hilt.

"I could say the same thing for you." The elf spat, swinging the falchion vertically. It scraped across Morde's chainmail vest, cracking a few of the links.

_If this death knight survived, then he will surely rally his armies. With the Argent Dawn weakened as it is, there will be no stopping him. _

He brought the falchion to bear quicker than Morde could lift his heavy runeblade. He noticed a deep gash in Morde's armor. Blood had frozen as it seeped out and onto the metal, but there was still fresh flows lapping out of the wound.

_His right side is weak. _Alaric concentrated his attacks on that side, but the death knight still had his runic powers. One of the runes on his sword flared bright, dancing as if a purple flame. Thick leaves of frost grew from the metal of the weapon, sparkling dimly in the light.

Zacharias stepped forward and swung at Alaric's thigh. The strike slid across the metal leggings the elf wore, leaving a scratch. Alaric felt the cold of the buffed weapon seep into his leg. Even though he'd only taken a scratch, the pain that coursed through his limb felt as if it had just been taken off. Grunting he fell backward to escape another blow and looked at the wound. Icicles clung to the tear in the armor and the wound below it looked as if it were frozen solid. The pain spread then stopped spreading at his thigh and knee.

"If I'd not used my runes to destroy Llachus, and had Bartholomew not injured me so, this would have been over in the first strike." Morde taunted.

"But why attack your own-"

"Why do I need a fortress when I am indestructible?" A twisted laugh rose from Zacharias' gut. He towered over Alaric at seven feet. The elf knew the difference in their strength. This man's arms and legs were like stumps, but all muscle. His death knight runic powers were perhaps on par with his arcane magic before it was taken from him.

"Damn you! Damn your sword, and damn Arthas!" Alaric retaliated. He could feel his arms growing tired, hitting once, twice, again and again. He mixed his combinations and attempted the different Dances he'd learned from the Blade Masters in Quel'thalas during childhood. Nothing worked. He was being toyed with. The realization only threw him further into rage.

Another rune lit up in a sunset orange on the death knight's sword. _Darkbane, _he'd called it. The magic expelled itself from the tip of the blade, but was met and stopped with a golden hammer. The magic split apart and whirled off into the distance. Sir Duncan Macallan stepped to Alaric's side.

"It seems we are destined to finish this fight, paladin." Morde said.

"And it seems that I keep getting saved by the same people." Alaric muttered. A grin touched Duncan's lips before his eyes met the corpse of Maxwell Tyrosus. Then his grey eyes flashed with brief anger. It was quelled at once though, hidden away with the rest of his emotions like paladins were wont to do. Alaric could only imagine what the man was feeling at the sight of his dead commander and friend.

"We're going to end this now, elf." Duncan said. Alaric could feel the paladin's resolve. He knew what the Duncan meant to do.

Alaric slowly backed away. An aura of shining gold enveloped Duncan as he stepped in toward his opposite. Hammer and runeblade met. With his aura, the paladin moved dizzyingly fast. The huge death knight barely managed to keep track of his enemy.

Back and forth the paladin and death knight battled. They were like land and water, constantly locked in the struggle of the tides. Their fight took them through the snowdrifts and around the fields of dead bodies.

Morde scored a hit on Duncan's vambraced arm with such force that the armor caved in, despite the protective aura. Alaric heard a bone crack. Blood welled, but before even a drop could touch the ground the paladin threw his arm in the air. The Light coursed through his body and almost instantaneously the grievous damage was healed.

_Would that I had become a priest instead..._Alaric laughed to himself. Unlike the arcane magics, holy magic was something entirely unexplainable. Maybe it came from some mysterious source of religious power, but Alaric's faith had flagged of late. That answer sounded like a convenience to him. Perhaps he could learn holy magic, but such a thing required rigorous and brutal training for years.

_I don't have years._

Yet another rune, this one a sickly green burnt into existence on _Darkbane. _An ethereal, fleshless arm reached from the blade to steal away Duncan's soul. The paladin clapped his hands and lay them flat on the ground, consecrating it with a holy fire. The foul magic evaporated.

A succession of hits later, Duncan managed to smashed the side of the death knight's horned helm. It was flung off like a piece of scrap. The blow was not enough though. Morde struck back as he lost his balance. The sudden counterattack caught Duncan by surprise and carved through his hauberk. Attempting to escape the worst of the hit, Duncan jumped backwards but slipped as well. He fell into a snowdrift and did not rise.

Alaric knew it was his chance to pounce. Dashing forward he stabbed his falchion up to the hilt through the death knight's back between the shoulders. The blade exploded out Morde's chest, sticky, red viscera coming with it. The death knight grunted, dropped his weapon, and twisted. With his huge arms he picked up Alaric and threw him to the ground like he would a child. The elf felt ribs cracking as he smashed into the ground.

Alaric'Quel awaited the final blow to end his life, but none came. Though it seemed an hour, not a few seconds had passed when he opened his eyes and peered above. The death knight was hunched over, his shoulders twisted at a grotesque angle to pull the falchion out. Slowly the weapon was plucked, fresh waves of red running from both his new and old wounds. He tossed it toward Alaric.

_By the Light, what is he?_ Alaric felt stunned. When he'd begun to fight Morde, the death knight had been cleaved from shoulder to collarbone. Now his chest cavity had been sliced open and still he stood.

"Elf, you did not win this fight."

"Just die!" Alaric screamed in frustration. Of all the enemies he'd ever faced, this one was proving one of the most tenacious.

Morde bent to pick up _Darkbane. _He convulsed in a fit of wet coughing, but recovered the weapon.

"It was won for you by my old friend." Lines of crimson ran from blue lips. He stuck the end of the sword into the ground and used it to balance himself. Then his eyes rolled backward toward the sky.

"Leonid, it seems we were fated to die on the same battlefield after all." Then he closed his eyes and became still.

"You bastard." Alaric spat. Zacharias Morde died upright and undefeated. He even looked dignified. How dare a demon like him to do such a thing. Alaric let out a wordless cry of cold fury.

Humiliation, hate, and anger filled Alaric. Here he sat, broken and battered beneath the shadow of Zacharias Morde. The death knight had utterly defeated him, his plan, and everyone else despite their greatest efforts.

Memories of Silvermoon burning as he watched from an evacuation ship returned, as did his battle with the Lich King atop Icecrown Citadel. The stinging truth about Kael'thas and his blood elves surfaced to plague Alaric again, as did the soul-shaking betrayal of his people. At every turn he was defeated and shunned.

_The righteous do not win. Justice does not prevail. History is written by the winners. They decide what is truth and justice. _ His father's voice haunted him.

Alaric stood and picked up his sword. The cold began to return as a breeze swept into his sweat-soaked breeches and jacket. He hobbled over to Duncan. The man was breathing. He'd hit his head on a rock or piece of debris after he slipped into the snowdrift.

"It is time to leave, paladin." He would carry the unconscious man through the ruins of Llachus to reach Even Chambers' and Bartholomew's regiment, if any of them still lived. Hopefully they could meet up with some of the survivors of Tyrosus' force. He'd seen a few of them back a ways after the crash.

The necropolis had seemed like it would initially come down directly on the Pass and block it, but its course was chanced when it clipped the peak of one of the mountains and come down on them instead. Sooner or later the surviving necromancers and lieutenants of Morde in the Noxious Glade would rally their forces. With the Lich King preoccupied in Northrend and neglecting the Plaguelands, instead of facing one huge army, the Dawn would be facing fifty smaller ones. The prospect was just as dangerous. Alaric did not want to be caught in the middle of a civil war with all manners of madmen scrambling to fill the void the death knight had left behind.

Just when Alaric was about to pick up the unconscious paladin, he felt eyes boring into the back of his head. He brought the falchion to bear.

Turning, his eyes met a set like his; slanted and hawk-like. Unlike most elves, this one's irises were black like his hair. Long ears poked through the mane of black hair that fell past slim but lean and toned shoulders. It was an elf. He stood shorter than Alaric, but still had an air and gait that seemed to enlarge his nobility. Two swords hung from sheathes at his waist.

"Alaric'Faltron Quel, it has been some time." The elf said. His voice was like blade-oil.

Alaric's eyes grew wide as he felt the ghosts of the past surrounding him once more. This man before him had once been a friend. Legend and stories surrounded this elf. He was arguably the most famed and skilled swordsman in the world. He was Salvos Fysian, the Duke of Blades.

Character Bio: Zacharias Morde

Zacharias Morde stands at an enormous 7'1. His eyes are the same color as his lips; deep, dark blue.

Once, Morde was a gallant, albeit ordinary knight of Stormwind. Born in Grand Hamlet into a commoner family, his size, strength, and martial prowess made him the perfect fit as a knight. After serving in the king's army during the Colonization against the Gurubashi troll tribes, he saved and was thusly squired to Sir Loramy Urram.

After being forced from the south by the orcs, Morde fought alongside the Alliance to reclaim his homeland. In the endless, bloody battles, he met and befriended the young nobleman Leonid Bartholomew. After the fronts stabilized outside Lordegarde, by order of Captain General Anduin Lothar the two snuck through the Horde's armies with a small force into the occupied countries to sow dissention among the enslaved populations. The two men became renowned heroes throughout the Seven Kingdoms for their dashing adventures during this time, including an encounter with the retreating Warchief Orgrim Doomhammer and the ogre mage Cho'gall.

The men survived the Second War, returning to Lordaeron as members of King Terenas' highest guard; the Order of the Marble Horse. While Morde grew complacent and entitled with all the lavish riches of the court, Bartholomew sharpened and honed his skill.

When the beautiful and charming Adrianna Teringas came to the King's court in Lordegarde, both men fell hopelessly in love with her. Morde attempted to shower her with gifts, showing her around his estates and telling tales of his glory. It was exactly this arrogance that drove Adrianna away from him. Instead she came to reciprocate the feelings of the more humble and hardworking Bartholomew.

In a fit of rage and jealousy, Morde attacked his friend in King Terenas' throne room amidst a crowd of onlookers including Terenas Menethil and his son Arthas. Zacharias Morde lost the duel and was disgraced. The King stripped him of his titles, lands, and honor.

Bitter and jaded, Morde disappeared from public life, looking for an escape to his shame. He became a feared bandit leader, falling to his new lows. When the Scourge's Plague had begun to appear at the fringes of Lordaeron, a new chapter the tragic life of Morde began.

Zacharias Morde and his bandits encountered none other than Kel'thuzad during this time. The necromancer saw Morde's potential and inducted him into the Scourge. For a first lesson in necromancy, Morde betrayed and slew his banditry comrades and used their bodies as materials.

Zacharias Morde the death knight had been born.

Factoid: The War Against the Lich King

The War Against the Lich King is an ongoing conflict involving the entire Horde, Alliance, undead Scourge, and various other factions across the world. The battles have raged from the sands of southern Kalimdor to the arctic wastes of Northrend across various theaters and proxy wars.

The events began in winter of 610 when the Plague of Undeath began to sweep in waves southward into the Eastern Kingdoms and Kalimdor once more. The Scourge consequently launches invasions across the world which culminated in the battles for Stormwind and Orgrimmar.

When the Scourge was beaten back at the walls of these cities, Warchief Thrall and King Varian Wrynn gathered their respective forces and allies for an unprecedented invasion of Northrend. Kul Tiras' destruction of the Scourge fleet off the coast of Gilneas left the oceans open. The inherent difficulties in logistics and communications over hundreds and thousands of miles caused for a slow start to the attacks, but by spring strong beachheads had been established on the shores of east and western Northrend.

During all of the early spring most battles were fought to defend these beachheads. Fresh reinforcements, along with strange complacency among the Scourge's massive armies, allowed both the Horde and Alliance armies to make inroads deeper into Northrend where they respectively encountered native populations willing to join their causes.

As it stands now, the forces of the Living, now held together in a loose coalition, stand ready to assault the Wrathgate which defends the heartlands of the undead Scourge; Icecrown Glacier.

A/N: Hey everyone,

Sorry this chapter took so long to put up. It was a long one and I had to do a lot of restructuring with it, especially surrounding the history of Zacharias Morde. I even ended up taking an entire POV out since it didn't mesh well. In the end I felt like the chapter was passable but that it lacked something and I couldn't figure out what. I'll just have to plan better for the next one.

Anyway, Pacificuser (Bien) it's great to hear from you again! I've always enjoyed and appreciated your reviews all these long years. I'll do my best to keep spell-checking. Sometimes I get lazy, haha.

High Elven Swordsman, good to see that you are alive and kicking. Thanks for the reviews!

-Omegatrooper


	7. Chapter 6: Ghosts

**Chapter 6: Ghosts**

A quiet wind slipped through the mountains, pushing back the tepid air in the great vale that separated Lordaeron from Quel'thalas. The bleak, desolate landscape, a testament to the Scourge's ultimate pursuit, had seemingly been cleansed by a thick, white snow. The precipitation had fallen gently from the clouds as they reached over the towering, rocky ranges. The decay of the land however, ran too far deep. The snow was merely a cosmetic.

In the midst of the white purity two elves circled; one a black shadow, and the other golden. The past swirled around the two, and emotion simmered just below the surface. Destiny and twined them together like none others. Neither could tell their fate.

The Duke was dressed in a black doublet, under which was slashed scarlet velvet. Similarly dark cuisses hung from thigh to knee. Two scabbards hung from a coal-shaded belt that was lined with amber scrollwork. A silver medallion fell about his bare neck. The rest was black shadow.

Alaric fought to calm himself. From the icy shores of Northrend to the rent ruins of Outland to the rebuilt splendor of Silvermoon, the passions of time threatened to topple his grip on himself.

If blind hate took over now he would be cut down in an instant. The elf forced his mind clear, bringing the falchion blade up to bear. The weapon was light, but the curve and feel of it was unfamiliar. The chainmail was weighing him down. It weighed at least fifty pounds.

_He cannot have entered this battlefield without facing some enemies, _Alaric told himself. Doubt and confusion flittered through him. _How did he get here? Is he here to finish what he began back at Silvermoon?_

Salvos Fysian, the Duke of Blades, unsheathed his two blades in such a slow and relaxed fashion he might as well have been reaching for a simple twig. Every movement was calculated and thought through. His fluid motions spoke of a thousand years of experience. One wrong move could mean a head lost.

Alaric stared in awe. Even seeing _Tel'ar _and _T'eis _drawn so many times in the past, it was still a haunting image. _Tel'ar _was like a sharp stripe of blue sky, clear and deadly. _T'eis _though, was as black as its wielder's eyes. Both weapons had long, storied histories that stretched back in the canvas of elven history. One legend had it that the blades were hammered and forged before the War of the Ancients.

"Alaric'Faltron Quel, Regent Lor'themar Theron sentences you to death-immediately." The Duke spoke softly. He struck the blades together, causing them to vibrate erratically. A strange, flat pitched tune emanated, as if the swords were oversized tuning forks. Instantly the Duke was inches from Alaric, the ends of his blades thrusting up toward the chin.

Alaric threw himself backwards, feeling the blood run from a deep wound on his chin dribbling down his neck. Another tenth of a second and he would have been skewered, and the weapon hadn't even hit him. Tel'ar's vibrations cut through the air itself, extending its range. Strangely enough for an elf, Salvos despised magic.

"Did you really come to kill me? If so, why even allow me to escape in Silvermoon four months ago?" Alaric questioned.

"Cease your efforts to buy time. You're exhaustion from battle will not lessen with a few words, and cut off from magic, the elements take their toll on you as much as any other non-elven mortal." Salvos said.

The pressure was incredible. Alaric could almost taste it in the air. Fysian's strength was legendary. Despite only reaching his chin in height, Salvos Fysian seemed a giant.

The exiled elf swung and missed as the Duke deftly stepped aside. Alaric pressed forward, striking again and again. The Duke calmly bypassed every swing.

"You are too open. Your attacks are wide and uncontrolled. Your stance is poor and your footwork is still abominable...as it always has been." Salvos stepped in, each blade pointed at Alaric's heart. He froze for a moment. Alaric cursed and pushed him away. In that moment, Fysian could have stabbed him ten times over.

_He's playing with me._

"Why are you here!" Alaric spattered.

"For the good of Quel'thalas. For the good of the world."

Alaric snapped. He charged forward, intent on cutting down the man before him. He no longer cared about his well being or his goals. The only thing in sight was the elf who'd one time been a brother to him.

Something stabbed through Alaric's boot, pinning him to the ground. Grunting, the elf fell. Fysian had avoided his attack and run Alaric's lead foot through with _Tel'ar, _shining pale blue under the clouds_._ Before Alaric even reached the ground, _T'eis_ pierced his torso. The sword dug halfway into his gut, grinding against rib bone. Rings from his armor flew apart, tearing away under the unstoppable force of the sword point. A gasp escaped him, surprise and pain mixing.

He barely felt the ground as the flakes covered him like blankets. _T'eis_ was still lodged in his ribs, the wound leaking his life blood to wet the snow.

_Why did it turn out this way? _The Duke's face had grown sad.

"Finish me." Alaric spat a glob of blood from his mouth. His voice sounded weak. "I have nothing else...what more can you take?"

"You still have a part to play. It is a strength to fight against destiny, rather than laying down to meekly succumb." Salvos freed Tel'ar from Alaric's foot, wiping the blood from the blade with a oiled cloth.

"How does it feel for your entire family, companions, and race to turn on you, your sole remaining friend slain at my hands. It must be maddening to look upon me."

"I'll - never forget - forgive - what you did."

"Embrace that obsession. Use it as a sword to defy fate. Do not forget what I told you in Silvermoon."

Alaric remembered the moonlight night he'd escaped from Lor'themar's troops. Fysian stood over him much as he did now, fully able to kill Alaric. The spires of the city glowed pale silver in night sky, reaching to impossible heights.

_In the ancient Tower of Arathor in the highlands of Stromgarde lies the true answer to the Scourge. _

"I haven't forgotten...but even if what you say is true -" Alaric struggled with the words. He tried to pry _T'eis_ from his gut, but the pain threatened to shatter his consciousness. He could barely breath. Every movement of his chest or legs shot searing red agony through him.

_But with that power, will you stop there? I know I would not. _Fysian's questions from the past bubbled ceaselessly in his mind.

"It is. Farewell, Alaric'Faltron Quel. This shall be the last time we see each other for quite some time. Our last encounter I gifted you with your life. This time, I give you the possibility of recovering your power."

"What?" Alaric's voice had dimmed from weak to frail whisper.

Fysian strode over to him and in one swift motion drew T'eis from Alaric. A flood of blood followed. White flashed before the wounded elf's eyes.

The Duke held out a finger that gleamed with crimson energy. He traced a finger across the surface of the sword, engraving the base of the weapon; a circle with twelve unequal dots all coming together in the center to form a larger thirteenth. It was a rune.

"I do not have the ability to break Kael'thas' seal on your magic, but with this you can reach into the Ley-lines...and perhaps in time, recover your abilities." Fysian took Alaric's hands in his own and passed the blade to him. Alaric found no strength to speak.

"Goodbye." The Duke of Blades said, a momentary sadness in his eyes disappearing. As he walked away, the snows began falling again. He disappeared behind a wall of white.

Before the world slipped away, he could hear Osra calling his name in the distance. Reality passed into memory, and then returned to swallow him.

"_Alaric!" The headmaster called out. _

"_Yes, master?" The young elf replied groggily, shaken awake by the apprentice sitting next to him. _

"_Pay attention you fool." The wizened old human snapped. "If you don't learn the basics, you'll end up dead, deformed, or worse, call the denizens of the Nether upon innocents."_

_Alaric cheeks burned with a blush. He'd fallen asleep again. It wasn't his fault though. The old mage was so boring talking about dichotomy of mana and the history of magic as practiced by humanity and the high elves. _

"_Tell me, Ears, what is the source of magic?" Alaric winced at the nickname he'd been given at the Stormwind's Academy of Arcane Arts and Sciences. The humans never ceased to tease him for his different features._

"_Magic in itself is a mortal construct. The thing we call magic is nothing but an ambient energy that resides within the world, but whose true origin is in the Twisting Nether. It flows through every mortal being, but only a few are talented enough to touch it, to release it like a flow of water from a faucet."_

"_Yes, textbook. Now, what are the aspects of arcane energy?" The headmaster asked, his face twisting in a wry smile. Alaric smiled as well. _

"_That is a trick question, master. Arcane energy does not have aspects. It is a simple energy. However, it is impossible for mortals to fully master arcane energy in its purest form. Thus magi and magical constructs either refer to brief bursts of this energy, or channel it into certain elemental forms, the two most common being fire and ice. The channeling is done through their bodies, depending on mood, incantation to aid concentration, or through icons."_

"_Very good, Ears. Now, explain to me, what is holy magic? Shadow magic? Runic?" The wrinkled man's smile grew even more, revealing yellow, grinded teeth. _

"_Uh…" Alaric was unsure. "Shadow magic is obtained using arcane energy tainted somehow, most likely by demons…and holy…" His voice trailed off._

"_Holy magic, to put it simply my pupils, is simply unexplainable." The teacher laughed. "How old are you, son?" The wrinkled old bag asked him. _

"_Twenty three, master." _

"_Ah, so young for an elf. You are but a newborn. You even look like a teen. However in the year that you've been here, you have surpassed many of my old students. And you have thousands of years to live. You might become fearsome indeed. Class dismissed." The elder's comments drew glares from his fellows. They hated him enough for simply being an elf. Now he would be hated by them for simply surpassing them without trying. _

_It mattered not though. Alaric descended from the long spiraling ramp in the center of the institution, walking out of the main chamber into the warm summer air. _

In the dream, the smell of the lavender thick in the air seemed so real. Students bustled to and fro. The Academy of Arcane Arts and Sciences was the largest magical learning institution outside of Quel'thalas and Dalaran.

_The students wore long, cotton robes died in indigo or violet. The denizens of Stormwind preferred a strange set of clothes in their equally strangely warm climate. Many of the local smallfolk he'd seen since arriving wore silly wide brimmed hats, billowy tunics, and long, but light trousers. They also wore bold, bright colors. Their fashion was somewhat amusing compared to the more drab northern countries. _

_The elf blocked those thoughts out of his mind though and quickly turned a corner into a small, but secretive alleyway. The thin alley was known as Heart's Arrow. Students whom had fallen for one another often gathered here during their breaks. He saw two lovers kissing in the shadow of the Academy. And then he saw her…Vaela Blackrow, with her shining blue eyes and thick, auburn hair. Tiny dimples formed at the sides of her smile as she spotted him. Their eyes met, and instantly they were entangled in each other's arms, kissing. His lover gasped and murmured in glee. _

_Alaric slowed himself for a moment. "Vaela…I love you, but are you truly sure in this? In us?" The two had been a couple for several months now, but in secret. She was different from the others. _

"_Of course! I love you too, sweet. I don't care if these other bastards annoy me a little here and there. We shouldn't have to hide ourselves!" He smiled. She had been the first light in this dark place for him. She was his first true love. _

He remembered every detail of her in the dream. The elf had long thought he'd banished her picture in his mind, but it rolled back to him like a warm embrace.

_He moved his lips closer to hers, but just as they were about to touch, a strong hand clasped his shoulder and pulled him away. Alaric turned, angrily. His fist balled and he prepared to punch the interloper when he saw none other than his father's cold, stern face._

"_What are you doing, Alaric?" Ruahal Tenar'Quel spoke, his voice filled with poisonous disapproval. His blue eyes were chilled as ice. _

"_Father, I—" _

"_Get away from here you damned whore! Run before I crush you where you stand!" Ruahal yelled at Vaela. She stood her ground. Her mouth opened for a moment to argue. _

"_Run, Vaela! I will find you later!" Alaric yelled. He knew his father was serious. After a moment of the two lovers's eyes interlocking, Vaela turned and ran, her auburn hair bouncing, the image burned into his memory. Alaric then turned to his father who grabbed him by the collar. One, two, backhands flew to Alaric's face. Warm blood filled his mouth. The two others in Heart's Arrow squealed and fled. Alaric felt fear for a moment, but resolved his heart. His father stood an imposing six and a half foots by human standard, and had tied his blonde hair into a ponytail that bowed outward from his head then dipped and touched his waist. _

"_You wish to debase our blood? I'd heard the rumors of your escapades with this _human _girl and I thought it to be a lie. I should have known better than to bring you to this city." Ruahal said, disgusted. _

"_She and I—" Alaric was cut off again._

"_I don't care what you feel for her. You ought to be more responsible. You are a Quel, and for seven thousand years our family has stood high in Silvermoon. Through us flows the blood of the Sunstriders! The blood of kings! You damned impulsive, impudent brat! Your lineage is a treasure." Alaric's father shoved him out of the alley, chiding him the entire way. _

Ruahal was known to be the right-hand man of the King of Quel'thalas, high in his favors. For a thousand years he'd guided his family through the turbulent politics of the Convocation with his intellect and savvy. He was also an expert mage and powerful to boot. Or so Alaric had been told. His father had been assigned by King Anasterian to be the ambassador to the distant, almost mythical human kingdom of Stormwind. The position was a station Ruahal had disagreed with though. He felt as if the Queen had edged him out of Silvermoon. Looking back on the situation, Alaric decided that he had to agree with his father's sentiment.

The memory floated into the distance, just like Stormwind and Vaela. Alaric never saw her again after Father had sent him home to Quel'thalas. His dreams blurred and became unfocused. Bits and pieces of the past mixed with fears and hopes creating new realities. After a long while, the memories returned.

"_My father is dead, and Stormwind, ever our ally, yet burns! Now the Horde sails north and king Terenas has called together a meeting to propose a common alliance, yet we choose to ignore his requests?" Alaric yelled incredulously. He was dressed in rich black velvet in a sign of mourning. Though he'd never been close to his father, he still felt the pain of the loss. _

_His voice rang in the sunstone halls of the Convocation of Silvermoon. The great domed roof was painted a thick, twilight blue, glazed with stars and a sliver of moon shined with the captured light of their real counterparts, adding a mysterious ambience. They slowly shifted with the heavens, reflecting the night sky even during the day. _

_The Convocation was set in a descending circle, with the King's chair in the center. It was empty. Anasterian had already made up his mind not to help the humans and dwarves. The entire meeting was ceremonial. Alaric's anger rose. _

"_Your position of Duke of Tranquillen merits your presence in the Convocation, but you are young and brash. You must cool your head Alaric'Quel!" One member of the Convocation called out. _

_"King Terenas is another one of Lordaeron's leavings. He has no power to call such a meeting." Someone else shouted. _

_"Let the humans deal with this problem. Such distant occurrences would never threaten us."_

_"If they even exist." Another added._

"_What of our promise to aid the sons of Arathor? The descendants of Thoradin now flee across the sea and seek the same help they gave us when the trolls were poised to wipe us out 3,000 years ago!" Alaric contended._

_During the dark days of the Troll Wars the scattered and primitive splinters of humanity had been rallied by a powerful warrior known as Thoradin. He'd united the tribes and become king of the mighty Empire of Arathor and fought alongside the elves to defeat the trolls. It was from that Empire's collapse that the seven modern human nations had formed._

"_That debt has been repaid, Quel. Must you always be so difficult?" The silver-haired Thalon Yel'mar argued. _

"_Can we not even send an ambassador to hear Terenas' request?" Alaric spoke, exasperated at the blindness of his people. The members bristled at his insolence. _

"_If you wish so badly to aid the humans, then perhaps you ought to be our ambassador!" One member, of the Drathir family, joked. Others laughed. _

"_Perhaps I should, and perhaps this council ought to grow a spine. I can stomach this farce no longer!" Alaric said with brittleness in his voice. He immediately arose from his seat amongst the Convocation members and stormed out of the hall. Voices called after him, but he cared not. They were all flatterers and fools. _

Time passed again. Alaric felt cold, like he was buried deep under the snow. Suddenly warmth splattered across his face. He opened his eyes to see he was covered in blood.

"_What is this?" _He heard himself ask.

_Looking down he saw purple blood dripping from his hands and armored chest. The orc in front of him collapsed, his blade still lodged in its throat. Had he killed it? Was it over? _

_His answer was clear enough when another orc appeared behind the one that had fallen. He lifted his shield that had his house's emblem, the bleeding branch, hammered into it. The blow came heavy, denting his kite shield toward his face. He gasped in surprise and horror. _

_It was his first battle against the Horde. His first battle ever. They were positioned somewhere in Silverpine Forest, but the location truly didn't matter. There was no strategic advantage to the location and nothing to protect. It was all just senseless killing. _

_Kill, kill, kill. _

_Alaric cowered behind his shield, the blows pelting down like rain. The metal began to twist and rip away under the repeated hits, revealing the enraged orc's face behind it. The greenskin's eyes were bloodshot and ravenous. _

_Glancing to the side, he could barely see twenty feet through the smoke. The pollution died the sun a deep red, like blood. Here and there orcs and humans fought in a messy tangle underneath the trees. _

_Alaric took a step back, but tripped on a vine of silverweed. The orc raised his axe. Instinct took over, and Alaric felt his last remaining weapon surge forth; magic. The greenskin let loose a bloodcurdling cry, something so inhuman and unworldly that Alaric wondered what hell these monsters came from. The thought came forth in fire. _

_The orc exploded into a ball of flames. Alaric rose, choking on something that felt like laughter. _

Light's Hope Chapel

Osra sat sleepily in the yellow striped tent in the midst of the Argent Dawn's center. She could feel the bags under her eyes growing heavier with each night. Light from a new morning streamed through the tent, dying everything in bright shades.

Alaric lay on a cot before her much as he had the past week and a half. His wounds were bound tightly and knit with holy magic. Still though, the priests and healers said it would take some time for full recovery. When she'd brought him to them they did not think he would make it.

The same could be said for the Argent Dawn itself. She looked at Alaric, still in his coma.

"You couldn't have known what would happen." She said. Alaric would undoubtedly place the blame on himself. She'd seen it happen with commanders before, even when the completely unexpected occurred. The worst had come when Llachus tumbled down the mountainside, straight into the oncoming wave of Argent Dawn attackers.

Still though, Field Marshal Chambers and Archmage Teresa had maintained a semblance of control over their battle lines. When Llachus fell and the Scourge forces were thrown into disarray, Chambers and his troops inflicted as much damage as possible before retreating to the old Darh Mills.

Osra had found Alaric, Duncan, and the bodies of noble Maxwell Tyrosus and the death knight, Zacharias Morde. She'd roused Duncan and with him led the remnant of the Argent Dawn's flank attack to safety.

Alaric coughed and then jolted in pain. Osra was drawn out of her lull by the noise. The elf's eyes opened, revealing two blue gems. He blinked several times as Osra took a cup of water to his mouth. He drank vigorously.

"Where?" He croaked.

"Light's Hope Chapel. We won." Relief flooded through her. A smile blossomed. So many had already been lost, and he was so much like Valdar in his own way. She did not want to lose him again.

"Is that what you call it?" A grimace fell across his face as he tried to sit up.

"Don't. You'll open the wound." She pressed his chest back down into the pillows.

"Tyrosus?"

"Slain in battle." Osra replied sadly. Alaric relaxed, closing his eyes with no expression on his face. The memory of last week's funeral was still heavy on her mind. So many good men and women had fallen; Lord Tyrosus, Lord Bartholomew, and at least four hundred others. Not all the bodies were able to be recovered or recognized, so those that survived burned in a mass pyre.

_We commend these souls unto the Light. Oh, thee who hath followed thy beliefs so faithfully, extend yourself to the Light, and forever be in its embrace. _Duncan had recited the funeral poems beautifully. As the flames went higher, tears had streamed from many eyes, her own included.

Each faith in the Argent Dawn had its own say; the tauren to their Earth Mother, the night elves to Elune. All the bodies were burned, so as to avoid resurrection, though the threat of an undead counterattack was gone for the moment.

"That was no victory." The elf whispered. "What happens to the Argent Dawn now? I have near ruined it since arriving."

"No! Because of you we were able to defeat Morde! He would have washed over Light's Hope Chapel had he attacked again." Osra retorted.

"The Argent Dawn?" The elf insisted on an answer.

"The leadership was put to a vote when our forces returned to Light's Hope. The commanders elected Duke Nicholas Zverenhoff as Regent Lord of the Light's Hope Chapter. The permanent position will be filled when we receive word from Sir Tirion Fordring. Zverenhoff is a good man and a capable commander. I won't be surprised if he retains the position."

"Who else fell?" Alaric asked.

"Many...Bartholomew the Revered among them."

"Just as I was warming to that sack of rot." Alaric coughed again, clutching his wound gingerly. Osra frowned at his comments but kept to herself. Now was not the time for argument.

For a long while there was quiet between the two. The elf's eyes remained closed as if asleep. Osra watched over him maternally, listening to the movement outside the tents, the cawing of the birds the druids had brought with them, and the whinnying horses.

"I promised you my tale, did I not?" Alaric's voice rose.

"Aye."

"Where to begin..."

Author's Note: Hey guys, sorry again for the delay. Had an uncharacteristic lack of motivation + a crap ton of work for my masters degree so this chapter remained buried for quite some time. I have a busy schedule up ahead until mid December but hopefully that won't keep me from posting the next chapter which I've already started writing. Thanks for sticking with me, and review for the inspiration please! :D

-Omegatrooper


	8. Chapter 7: Traveled Roads

**Chapter 7: Traveled Roads**

"Four years ago I stood atop Icecrown Citadel at the roof of the world. With the power of the Waters of Eternity harvested from the base of the World Tree I fought the Lich King for the defense of Azeroth. On the icy fields and slopes of Northrend our armies raged and clashed, and the sky itself was rent with thunder and malice. I stabbed the beast in the heart but it was not enough...not near enough. I should have died that day, but I did not." Alaric's gaze pierced the thin, yellow-striped flaps of the tent.

Osra Leone had heard the tales of Alaric'Quel's great expedition to Northrend. By uniting the leaders of the Alliance, he'd gathered an army, re-conquered Quel'thalas, and invaded the home of the Lich King himself. The tales all ended in heroic defeat though. The arms of Azeroth fought tooth and nail to prove that the instinct to live trumped all, almost dying to a man. Then, as quickly as he appeared on the scene, Alaric'Quel had disappeared. Some said he had been slain, others that he'd fled, and darker yet, that he had gone to the Lich King for power.

"But you know all this. My forces were scattered to the wind and our hope broken. Using what power the Waters had left, I left this world to find allies and weapons in Outland." The elf saw Osra's confusion "Draenor, as it used to be called; the ruinous home of the orcs. If the powers of the Well of Eternity could not defeat the Lich King, I would have to search elsewhere."

Osra knew not of any Well of Eternity or magical Waters, but she did not question. She simply sat and listened. The elf was finally beginning to open up, and she wouldn't ruin his tale with excessive questions.

"Now I can see it was all foolishness. I should stayed in Azeroth and helped sheppard my people. My own stubborn will to prove some lost cause cost me more than I can ever regain. And it has cost lives, many lives." Alaric spoke, his eyes never blinking, holding no emotion.

Osra frowned, remembering the huge, barely healed wound on his left pectoral. The old wound had taken a chunk out of his chest, leaving it discolored and indented. She'd seen even more when helping undress him for his operation. Dozens of smaller ones crisscrossed around his back, and thin, white scars traced his underarms. They were the scars from battle...and torture.

"What happened on Drae-Outland?"

Alaric's lip turned up in a crooked smile.

"Outland was the beginning of the end. Everything changed and I opened my eyes."

**Northrend, 3 1/2 Years Ago**

"Milord…I do not understand" Dethal, so dear a friend and loyal aid, said in confusion.

"Nor do you have to. It has not been in vain Dethal, my friends. This fight, this war, has greatly damaged the Scourge. I myself wounded Arthas. Now they know how ferocious an animal can be when cornered. We can still win, but to do so we must have more allies. The Alliance will not fully back us, and we are scattered and hurt." he explained.

Alaric pulled out one of the three remaining vials of the water he'd collected at Mount Hyjal and poured it onto the ground, waved a hand, and immediately a ripple tore in the air before them. A huge portal now stood in their midst, its chaotic magic twisting and writhing as it was tamed by Alaric's spell. The waters were more powerful than anything else in the world. It was by their power that the army had penetrated so deeply into the Scourge's territory, and that Alaric had been able to harm Arthas.

"I travel to Outland, Dethal…I leave you in control of our army. Keep ready, my brethren. I shall return with our wayward brothers in Outland. I _will _find Kael'thas, and we will be reunited."

_I will return._

Dethal, Duran Talonfist, and the rest of the blood elves stood, confusion and disbelief etched across their faces. Their gold, green, and crimson armor was stained and broken by battle, but those who remained still carried their pride like proper elves. So many of their kind had already fallen, but again and again those few who could rose up and challenged the most powerful evils in the world. With such wills, the world could be made right again. It had to be. There was no other way in the fight for survival.

In the distance, great pillars of smoke rose from the wreckage of the battlefield and littered Icecrown Glacier. Even further away a thin pillar of crystal ice shone like a blue spear piercing the wispy purple and orange clouds. Arthas.

_I will show that bastard. I'll show them all. _Alaric's thoughts echoed back to him. The same burning desire had been the flame that had lit this war. At the end of this road though, he just wasn't powerful enough. The Lich King had beat him and won, but the war was not without its victories. Time, the most precious resource, had been bought. It was the exact thing he needed now. He turned his attention to Dethal.

"I give you this blade, _Quel'Barrar,_the High Sword, given to me by my father and his father to him. I leave you as the commander of this force, the responsibility Regent Lord of Quel'Thalas and any Blood Elves that still follow the Great Pine Banner. I shall see you win time. We cannot repeat the mistakes of the past again, Dethal. May the Light forever be with you my friend…" Alaric spoke solemnly. He handed Dethal the shattered hilt of his family's sword. The heirloom belonged in Quel'thalas. It was a symbol of power, and would lend itself to Dethal's hegemony over the elves until his return.

_Forgive me for leaving, friend. It is the only hope of one day defeating the Lich King. We need new allies and we need new weapons. These Waters of Eternity are so little, and our people so few. I will return, and then we will end it._

The elf repeated the thought to himself as he turned to face each of his people. These few, only fifteen, were all that remained of the blood elves whom he'd taken with him on the expedition here to Northrend. The grinding campaign had taken its toll on them and his once illustrious army, which had marched from Southshore to Quel'thalas, and from the shores of Northrend to Icecrown itself. Pride and love swelled within him as he saw the banners of the Alliance held high, even in defeat.

_I will return._

Looking around one more time, Alaric soaked in what he could. With a determined look in his piercing eyes, he breathed deeply his last air from Azeroth, and boldly stepped through the rippling portal, and out of view.

Stars exploded around Alaric, and he fell weightlessly through a tunnel of twisting green. The most distant cosmos felt but a reach away, and the skies of a thousand worlds wheeled overhead. Time stretched out and contracted to meaninglessness. Eons swept past, and fractions of a second groaned by slowly, each the lifetime of a star.

With a thud he fell onto cold, red, cracked clay. With eyes wide open, he stared as the cosmos unfolded above him. The elf slowly stood, legs feeling like jelly. Suddenly he lurched sideways and vomited. His body shook violently, and for a long while he lay on the ground shivering watching the sky. A comet was passing overhead, seemingly static in the far off reaches of space.

When at last the elf felt strength creep back into his bones, he stood, looking around.

"I have brought myself to hell itself." He muttered as he took his first uneasy steps toward destiny. The wastes of Outland stretched to the horizon to meet vicious red mountains, behind which the rising sun plastered shadows to the earth. The wind brought the alkaline smell of a cold desert.

Alaric saw a far off spire in the distance, black as the night sky above. Or was it night? The sun was rising. Suddenly the elf felt disoriented. The laws of Azeroth did not apply to this forsaken place.

_Might as well start there. _Suddenly the realization hit Alaric. He had no plan, no clue where Prince Kael'thas and his blood elves might be. There were no maps, no directions. He could not even tell north from south. Even the stars were alien and unfamiliar.

"And I am not a good tracker, either." Alaric talked to himself. The silence of this place was eerie. He felt as if the ghosts of the past would haunt him if no noise were made.

Battles beyond count and reckoning likely drenched every crevice of his land in blood at some point or another. After all, it was the homeland of the orcs, whom even now infested Azeroth after their invasion.

Alaric continued his trek through the rugged land, the terrain changing to more hills punctuated by deep, winding canyons. Little green rivers ran through the canyons. After descending to test the water, Alaric drank deeply. Even though the liquid had the same alkaline taste as the air, it was one of the sweetest things he'd ever drank.

There was no sign of life anywhere though. No fish, and no animals. Not even plants, save for the scraggly thorn bushes that seemed to erupt anywhere where they could cling to sturdy walls. Alaric avoided them. Even without the wind, the long vines of the thorns seemed to writhe ever so slowly, and piles of bones seemed to surround the bushes.

For a brief moment he allowed himself rest. Since the battle at Northrend he'd had none. His whole body ached, from hair to bone. Silent reflection passed through his mind and he felt his eyes grow heavy. Dreams of Quel'thalas, golden trees swaying in gentle wind, with rolling hills peaking above the temperate forests, came and went. Shining Silvermoon and quiet Tranquillen and even the mighty Sun Forts flittered before his eyes as he dozed.

Suddenly noise echoed through the canyon. Footsteps. In his exhaustion he'd been taken unawares. Alaric could only look to the left where the rock walls split off in different directions before blood curdling screams and axes were upon him. What was it? His mind did not have time to register.

Blocking an attack by grabbing his assailer's wrist, the elf twisted the axe out of a sweaty, scarlet palm. Alaric ducked below a second attack, then dodged a third, and parried once more with the chipped stone axe. The axe splintered against iron.

_Orcs? They're bloody orcs! _Though the red-fleshed bore some of the twisted visages of demon-spawn, they were undeniably orc; the black manes of hair, hunched backs, and bulging muscles, as well as the unmistakable eyes of bloodlust. Many of his attackers had horns sprouting painfully from their skulls, while still others had more black, bony material erupting from below their skin on various parts of their body.

_The demonic corruption. It has bled into this land and the orcs, dying them its color. _

With no weapons, Alaric felt himself fall into the familiar state of peace and chaos that was magic. Power exploded within him like a blinding light that had to be released. The elf unleashed a torrent of magic which cascaded through the crags, turning the water to steam and melting rock into magma. At least three orcs were caught in the sudden flood of red hot rock. Exultation and exhilaration flooded through him. Whips of flame and smoke lashed at the orcs that rushed onward, too fooled by their lust for elfblood to know the situation.

Power. So much power. He felt even more powerful than before, as if the magic were coursing through his veins like blood. Alaric felt greater here than ever before on Azeroth. No wonder Prince Kael'thas had traveled to this land. It was soaked - no, saturated with magic.

Arrows began to fall about him, all deflected by a barrier he erected by twisting threads of energy around himself like a tight net. He gathered the magic into himself, feeling more alive than ever. Every shadowy feature on the orcs amplified, the smell of old bones from the thorn bushes rushed into his nostrils, and even the sounds of the windy green river exploded into his ears.

"Andu -" Alaric held his hands up, tendrils of magic slithering around his body. "FALAS!"

Swirling green fire erupted from beneath his flesh. The conflagration spread, engulfing the demon orcs that surrounded him. Abrupt screams were cut short by the heat as Alaric poured more energy into the flames, which tinged white hot.

Then the world darkened again. Alaric felt the magic leaving him. Stunned, he looked around at what he'd wrought. The canyon floor had turned to black glass, leaving not even the ashes of his enemies. The exhaustion hit him once more.

"Making friends on Draenor is easy." Alaric laughed to himself as he saw one orc, legs taken by the fire. This archer had stood far enough away to escape death. Mostly.

_Perfect._

Approaching, Alaric saw a black tower tattooed onto the orc's left breast. The orc howled in pain and fear, attempting to escape by crawling on his arms. His bulging biceps were strained and pumped full of the same purple blood that drenched his body. The orc continued to scuttle away, screaming in its bestial language.

"So, there are more of you in that tower, eh? Telling me that much, you at least deserve a clean death." Alaric knelt down beside the orc, placing a hand on its temple. The orc whimpered.

Later that day

The vicious land of Draenor's Hellfire Peninsula was no place for fools. Windswept plains of dry, red desert suddenly gave way to deep gorges, hostile wildlife, tar pits, and far worse. The weak and the fools had long ago died off, leaving only hardened old people in its place.

Meric Bastonn shifted his dusty cloak around him. The winds were cold at night, cutting down to the bone when they howled in from the Blade's Edge Mountains. A scraggly hellthorn bramble rustled around the soldier and his fellows. The damnable thorns were the size of a fist and dangerous as a dagger. They made for good ambush spots though.

Stars shone overhead. Meric glanced at them for a moment, wondering if Azeroth was somewhere amongst the plethora of dots. He quickly quenched the thought when he heard the padding of footsteps. Their quarry was nearing, as the scouts reported. The soldier waved to his companions also lying in wait. They move up to his side quietly. None wore mail or plate or anything that would give away their position.

Meric's keen eyes watched the road keenly. It was an old road paved by the orcs long ago, or so he'd been told. In fact, it wasn't a difficult idea to believe; the road was paved with the skeletons of the conquered. Thousands of skulls and bones had been placed in the ground supposedly those whom the Horde had conquered. It lead from the Hellfire Citadel to the Dark Portal itself. Near the Portal some of the bones were human, brought back from Azeroth when the orcs poured into their world.

Orcish voices rose from the road. Slowly he peaked out of the bush. Eight orcs from the Citadel, their flesh flushed scarlet, marched up the road, readying their axes as they spotted the elf. They quickly surrounded him, shouting in their guttural language. In their midst, stepping gingerly upon the bones of the Skulled Road, a silhouetted elf seemed to float. His hair appeared white under the starlight.

Whatever it was, it was no orc. It looked more like an elf than anything. Had their runner been wrong? The figure's head shot in his direction. Meric ducked.

"Are they meeting up with those blood elves? Those damn demon-whores!" One of Meric's men spat. The leader hushed his man with a slap on the head. Meric understood a few phrases of orcish. He'd studied from one of Honor Hold's prisoners for quite some time. He'd figured that if they were to spend the rest of their lives fighting these monsters, it would come in handy to know at least some of their foul tongue. What he heard was not recognition or greeting. These orcs weren't expecting to meet someone. They weren't sure if they would rather take him back to their filthy fortress or gut and eat him on the spot.

The elf chuckled quietly as the orcs slowly argued all about him. Suddenly his hands flew to the air and bars of flame erupted from them, lancing two orcs in bloody halves. The others charged, screaming their war cries.

"While they're distracted, slay the beasts!" Meric bellowed. His unit flew from the hellthorn bramble, swords flashing with starlight. Arrows flew above their head, pin cushioning two more orcs. A howl filled the air, but its caller crumpled to the ground as human steel cut through throat-flesh. The monsters were taken unawares, three falling to swift bladework in mere moments.

"Lordaeron!" Meric shouted out as he tossed a knife at one of the two fleeing orcs. The weapon found its mark at the base of the orc's skull. An arrow took the last one down. As quickly as the brawl had begun, it was over. What remained were nine corpses, ten men, and an elf. Meric turned his attention to the elf who was already staring at him with icy blue eyes.

"You are a fool to travel in armor, stranger. Fool's don't last long here." Meric rasped, staring the elf up and down. For a moment, the only response was silence. Then the elf bowed his head politely.

"You are fighters of Turalyon's army." Surprise flittered across his face. Meric could feel confusion ripple through his men.

"Aye, but Turalyon be long gone now." Someone said. For a moment the elf paused to realize the situation.

"You from Allerian Stronghold? What news from the forest?" Someone else asked. Meric shushed his men with a foul look.

"I am honored by your presence. Allow me to thank you on behalf of all Azeroth for you sacrifices. I am Alaric Faltron'Quel, of Quel'thalas." A voice smooth and sharp as steel announced.

"He's not one of ours." A silky voice spoke up. Lotus tel Tallon emerged from the brambles, not a one of the needles marring her perfect skin. Two long ears were visible just above her copper mane. With narrow eyes she aimed her orcbone bow.

"Take him alive." Meric grunted.

"Wait, I—" The elf, confused, threw his hands up to avoid conflict. A ape of a man appeared behind him, striking with a quick blow to the elf's head. Meric's sergeant, Burdock Trafford, chuckled as the blood elf collapsed in a heap.

Nonchalantly, Meric strode toward the fallen orcs, jabbing a spear at the base of each of their skulls for good measure. These red-skinned orcs were wont to playing dead, abruptly waking up, and slaying fighters as they walked away from the battlefield.

"What do we do with this one?" Thickly muscled Trafford asked. The dark skinned man knelt beside the unconscious form of the elf.

"Strip, gag, and bind him. I don't want him sneaking any weapons into the dungeon. Danath will be pleased to squeeze the information out of this one." Meric sneered at the elf. After what had happened the last time he'd seen elves, he knew better than to trust their kind again, even those who called themselves allies. He glanced at Lotus and felt his mood sour.

"Let's go boys! Back to Honor Hold!"

-Author's Note-

Hey guys, next chapter as we learn more about the factions on Outland I will include lists that sum up their numbers. I know PacificUser wanted one for those forces back in Lordaeron, but that will have to wait until we return there. Trust me, it's for the best!

My aim is to get the next chapter out before Christmas as I'm in the middle of finals and studying about 10 hours a day, which leaves little room for writing. Happy holidays!


	9. Chapter 8: Fealty

**Chapter 8: Fealty**

The dusty winds of the Hellfire Peninsula wrapped around Meric. He could feel the grime penetrating his leathers and mail, encrusting his flesh. He scratched his the scum from the corners of his eyes. When the warrior had first arrived in this Light-forsaken land, pinkeye had been his greatest enemy. The infections had kept from doing battle for quite some time, though as with his comrades, he'd adjusted over the years to accept the new environment.

_Would still rather be in the marshes or forest, _Meric's thought. Still though, there was an important mission to be completed here in the Waste; the orcs yet remained, and this was their stronghold. Their demon masters also.

Behind the lean, muscled frame of Meric Bastonn followed his eleven companions; the ex-pirate admiral Sinbad Slywaters, huge Burdock Trafford, joking Jurgen Klein, the sisters Talia and Mira, silent Morgan Claine, beer-gutted Borodino, dark-featured, mustachioed Gonzolo, the dwarven-raised Odinn Orcsplitter, and the elf Lotus tel Tallon...and carried over Trafford's shoulder, their prisoner, the blood elf.

The black tower pierced the clouds in the distance. Meric cursed it and turned away. For almost twenty years the ramparts of Hellfire Citadel had held the legions of Kargath Bladefist's orcish Horde. In all these long years, neither the remainder of the Alliance of Lordaeron's Expedition Forces nor the Horde had been able to crack each other. Great battles had been fought across the land in the beginning, but as time passed, the battles diminished into minor skirmishes fought over newly laid borders. The Expedition's forces had splintered off to cover more land, spreading thin across the ruined world.

Up ahead the image of Honor Hold began to open before them. Standing on a spit of rock that rose above the surrounding land, the Hold was circled by checkered walls rising fifty feet high, banners of blue, green, white, and red fluttering about them. Most of the lower layers of bricks had been made from stone taken from the lands around the Dark Portal in Azeroth. They were grey and white. When stone had run low, or when renovations, improvements, or repairs were needed, new quarries had been opened up near the Cutting Hills off to the west as well as the canyons below, rendering the reddish rock blocks that now dotted the walls.

Inside the Hold, various ringed levels culminated with the enormous drum keep. Lord General Danath's banners were visible even from here; great white sheets with the Stromgarde mailed fist implanted. The pinnacle of the keep was lined with impaled orc, ogre, and demon skulls. For twenty years Honor Hold had been a bastion of law and justice in this twisted, alien world. Men and women of different creed, culture, and country had forgotten their differences. When the Portal was slammed shut and the world broke, they all became kin.

"Home." Trafford said, always a man of few words. His simple sentence ran true though. The sons and daughters of Azeroth knew Honor Hold to be their lonely home.

Approaching, Gonzolo pulled a wizened and cracked tusk-bone horn, blowing it thrice to announce their return. As the band passed under the portcullis Meric looked up. Small murder holes had been placed along the ceiling of the passageway to pour hot oil and privy muck at invaders.

Entering into the bailey square, commotion engulfed the party. A square of pikemen were training in the green near the stables where a sortie of lancers was dismounting. Gryphon riders from the Aeire Peak dwarf Kuradan circled the sky, their shadows playing off the cobbled stones. Men and women scurried to and fro, intent on completing whatever tasks had been assigned to keep them busy. A new shipment of what seemed iron and copper ores was being counted out and weighed in the main while an elderly man tended to some sickly looking crop in the far corner of the Hold.

A bored looking man dressed in scrappy clothes appeared and produced parchment.

"Name, rank, code and file."

"Meric Bastonn, First Note, Blue Kite. The mission was to monitor enemy movement in the Great Fissure."

"And he is...?" The intermediary scribbled. He knew Meric and the rest, though the soldier never bothered to learn the scribe's name.

"A blood elf. We might be able to wring more talk out of this one than the last."

"General Danath certainly has it in for these blood elves, I know. But of course, your kind is always greatly welcomed and cherished." The intermediary bowed his head slightly at Lotus. The elf rolled her eyes and stalked off. Half of Meric's party's heads loped after her image as she disappeared behind a corner, their faces painted with stupid smiles.

"Another reason women shouldn't be allowed to serve." Meric grumbled, running a hand through his sparse hair.

"If only men would learn to prioritize." Talia laughed lightly, following after Lotus.

"Oh, I'd prioritize...starting with you." Jurgen grinned.

More stupid smiles. Meric felt the heat on his neck rising. There was no time for such frivolities. No man here was younger than 33, and yet they acted like boys who'd never seen a naked woman half the time within the walls of Honor Hold.

_Little honor they have._

"All of you, out of my sight! Not you Burdock." The party dispersed.

"Aye. Take the prisoner to the gallows. I shall send a runner to inform General Danath of your prize."

The sudden movement of the orcs worried him enough, but this elf could be a harbinger of something far worse. Should those blood elves return, Honor Hold would have to fight two fronts. It would be impossible.

"Another thing. He is skilled in magic. We saw him cut one of the orc bands to pieces without laying a hand on them. We should call on the Archmage to restrain and bond him." Meric recalled the elf's fire as he tore apart the orcs with ease. The

"We can send for Barion instead. There is no need to call upon the Archmage herself."

"Barion is but a whelp. This elf is strong." The memory of that look scared Meric. "We will need her power to hold him."

Honor Hold Dungeons

A splash of icy water snapped Alaric from the dreaming world and back to the waking. A bright light blinded him for a moment as his eyes adjusted. Four men stood fully armored in old, tarnished plate. The insignias of the Alliance were pressed into the gorgets and hauberks, badges of allegiance. One held a shimmering lantern. The elf he'd seen earlier also stood with them, her heart-shaped face framed by a mass of copper hair. Her large, hazel eyes looked down on him in disgust. She wore rather...revealing...leathers under a green Quel'thalas Ranger cloak.

Turning his head to avoid her ample bosom, a headache blossomed. Touching the back of his head, the elf felt warm, wet blood smearing onto his hand. He cursed then looked up at his captors.

A tall woman with a crown of gray braids had appeared without a sound. She wore a loose robe with crimson trim that slid silently across the floor, giving the impression of floating rather than walking. Her lined face held a stern expression. Alaric recognized her immediately; Gilda Taerum, Court Sorceress of Lordaeron.

"Gilda." Alaric said, a smile reaching his face. The sorceress lips did not so much as twitch. Her eyes remained hard and probing.

_Tis a miracle even one of them is alive after twenty years stranded. And an even greater one to meet them the day I arrive. _

"Alaric. Why are you in Outland?"

"Outland? Is this not Draenor?"

"Do not play the dunce with me, Quel!" Gilda lowered her ivory staff. Alaric was flung backwards and pinned against the moldy wall. He felt the breath knocked out of him.

"Gilda-what-is the meaning-of this reception?" Alaric struggled to ask. He remembered her as the quiet, reserved girl that clung to the curtains when they were first introduced. That had been in Dalaran many long decades ago. They had both been apprentices to Archmage Antonidas in those days. They'd gotten drunk for the first time off of his wine cellar, and been assigned three weeks of hard labor to repay Antonidas. The kindly old man had only carried out a third of their sentence.

"You may not have aged a day, but don't think that familiarity means that kindness remains between us after what you're people did."

Confusion gripped Alaric. He'd not expected to be welcomed as a hero, but he certainly did not anticipate such an outcome. What had happened in these twenty years to harden Gilda so? The spell continued to press Alaric against the wall harder and harder. He felt his bones bending painfully. If this kept up, Gilda would kill him.

_What in the Light happened to her? _

Instinctively he reached for his magic. The elf felt the warm light of arcane magic fill his body, enveloping him in the cloud of energy. He tried to cast a shield around himself, but felt a barrier preventing him from tying off the channeled magic. He gathered more magic to himself. Again, the barrier held him in check. He felt its wall, searching for cracks. There were none. It was a flawless, Kirin Tor styled spell.

"Release me - Gilda!" Alaric gasped, unable to breach the barrier or breathe. Suddenly he fell to the ground, hair spilling over his eyes. Heaving, Alaric lay prostrate, recovering his strength before looking up to met Gilda's gray eyes.

"Lord Danath wants you alive, and so you shall remain - until the moment he is finished with you." She said, gathering a fistful of his hair in his palm and dragging him up. The guards approached, bearing steel. At sword point they pushed him out of the cell, the weapons jabbing into his back more than once.

"What is going on? What happened!" Alaric asked incredulously.

"I am no more obligated to answer stupid questions than entertain the killers of my brothers and sisters in my own house." Gilda hissed venomously. She wove another spell around Alaric, pressing his mouth closed with some invisible force.

_Danath Trollbane, heir to Stromgarde and the Arathi legacy. He will hear me. _Alaric remembered Danath's face. He'd met the man once in the ruins of the Dark Portal after the last battle of the Second War.

The troupe walked down narrow stone halls lit by weak-flamed braziers. His captor's faces, even Gilda's, were warped by the shadows playing off them. They passed other uniformed men and women who silently watched him with same look of hatred. Eventually they reached a long spiral staircase and ascended. The air grew warmer and Alaric could hear the sounds of a great fire and spitting logs.

They entered a large hall, the fire at one end and a long table crisscrossed with maps and battle plans. At the end of the room was a large table with more tomes and parchments spread across it. Behind it hung a plethora of colorful aegis's and shields from the various nations and provinces of the Alliance. Each bore a different emblem and design. They were the shields of fallen knights.

Standing at the table were two men; one, Alaric recognized as the man he'd seen when he'd been attacked and knocked out. His hair was cropped in a soldier's cut, and one eyebrow was completely white. The other was an older, broad shouldered man in his early fifties. A crown of thin gray circled the sides of his head, though the top was bald and shiny. A neatly trimmed beard, the same as it had been two decades ago, sat on a stony military face. Danath Trollbane wore an azure and gold tabard over a vest of simple white wool.

"We encountered four more orc scouting parties near the Great Fissure. There was also a large camp here. More than a hundred cookfires." The soldier explained.

"Much more pressure than we anticipated." Danath muttered, stroking his beard.

"I surmise that the orcs may be building for an attack against Honor Hold."

"I concluded as much. At the least, they are exploring the possibility. Kargath seems to be feeling for weaknesses. So, our old nemesis has finally quelled the Horde's rival factions." Danath seemed lost in thought.

"Lord General Danath!" Gilda Taerum announced their presence. "We bring First Note Meric Bastonn's prisoner. The blood elf."

"Ah yes, come." Danath eyed Alaric up and down. Suddenly, the spells stuffing Alaric's mouth unraveled. He walked toward Danath, flanked by the guards and Gilda.

"We found him in the Fissure. He was cutting down the orcs we were about to ambush." Meric said.

"He is shielded." Gilda said.

Danath approached, standing within half an arm's length of Alaric. His dark eyes stared deeply into the elf. Creases and wrinkles, more from the pressure of leadership and worry than age, crisscrossed Danath's face. Three small scars reached down his chin and toward the throat.

_A warrior's eyes. A warrior's features. _

"I am Alaric Faltron'Quel of Tranquillen, a loyal and genuine servant of the Alliance." Alaric said.

"And what alliance would that be? One with demons?" Danath asked, his voice.

Alaric stuttered for a moment, at a loss for words.

"Whatever inclinations you may have, I fall not within them. There is much to tell you. I am honored to be in the presence of such heroes. In time, perhaps we can find a way to return to Azeroth."

"Tidings? Have you come to tell us of how Lordaeron is lost to the world? How Quel'thalas lies in ashes? Have you come to whimsically explain that millions lie dead? These tales our ears have heard already. Whether truthful or not, I cannot determine." Danath turned, pouring a finger of alcohol in a small cup that lay on his desk.

You've met with Prince Kael'thas and my kin?"

"Aye." Danath took a look at his glass before downing the dark brown liquid. "We have met your..._kin." _Particular emphasis was placed on the last word.

_Then they do live! There is yet hope for Quel'thalas! _Alaric felt his spirits surge.

"I must know if they are alive. Do they yet remain on Draenor? It is imperative I reach them." Alaric said excitedly.

"Your kin first came to us several years ago. At first we thought it a miracle that someone from Azeroth had reached us. They told us of the devastation of Lordaeron. And then I watched as they turned on us, slaughtering over a hundred of my men."

"I - what?" Alaric stared, his mouth open.

"Aye. They attacked us with the power of the Twisting Nether itself. This world is hell, and for twenty years we have fought not only orcs, but the most dark, evil terrors and demons that the Nether offers."

"I have seen Shadow Council warlocks raise the dead and summon their horrors. I have seen the Burning Legion wipe out entire lands with the flick of a wrist, and I can say that your _kin _have used the same power. To me, they are little more than demons themselves. We have paid in blood for their deception."

"Taboo." The female elf said.

"You must be mistaken. Yes, the blood elves have utilized alternative methods to channel. Yes, we've dabbled in fel magic, but never - "

"The blood elves drink tainted demon energy like they breath air. It has made their minds black and corrupt." Gilda stated.

Alaric felt anger and disbelief biting at the back of his mind. Prince Kael could never condone such actions. He and Kael were much the same; in age, action, and opinion. Though he'd never spent much time with the Prince, he'd always been in agreement with Kael'thas whenever they did meet. His father had even called them two of a kind once.

"Lies." He stammered. "My people, our people -" He looked at the elf-lady behind him. Her gaze pierced through him. It was the truth...but it couldn't be! "I never reckoned you to be a human supremacist Danath. I'd thought you above that! How can you listen to this rubbish!" Alaric turned the other elf.

"They are no longer my people." She said coldly, showing him her shoulder. Alaric's head sunk.

_What in the Light is happening on this world? Am I going mad? _

"You know all this. Do not try to pretend otherwise. Nothing has come from Azeroth since the breaking of this world except those blood elves. You are one of them." Danath accused, pointing a finger.

"What shall we do with him?" Meric asked. Danath looked longingly at his glass once more, and then to the shields on the wall.  
>"Have you anything to say? To prove your innocence, Alaric Faltron'Quel?" Danath asked.<p>

Alaric stared at the ground, unable to comprehend what he was hearing. How was it possible? Was it a nightmare? He did not respond.

Without turning, Danath spoke. "Hang him."

Alaric was rustled out of the room, hands and feet bound by rope. The stairwell and main hall passed in a blur, an angry crowd gathering around him as his escort dragged him into the main square. His head spun with the revelations. There was no way Kael'thas could be behind such a travesty.

_I must know the truth. I must return the Prince to his rightful place in Quel'thalas._

Suddenly a noose was being fitted around his neck in the midst of the castle square. Danath and the rest had appeared. The noisy throng of soldiers crowded at the base of the gibbet, intent on some entertainment.

"Gilda, this is madness! It is I! Alaric!" The elf called out.

"Be as you may, I will not take the chance of another massacre happening. The Sons of Lothar are my brothers and sisters now, not the ghosts of the past." Alaric frantically searched the barrier Gilda had erected around him for a weakness.

"Death to the enemies of Azeroth!" He could hear Danath shouting at the crowd. "Death to the enemies of the Sons of Lothar!"

The noose tightened, crushing Alaric's throat. Suddenly he remembered a weakness in Gilda's channeling that she'd always had as a child in Dalaran. He began to fill himself with magic, letting his body become a vessel of the ambient magic floating in the fabric of Outland. He engulfed the energy without end, letting himself fill to the brim. The crowd backed away, faces souring with abrupt fear as the elf's eyes began to glow with magical overflow.

_There! _He snapped Gilda's barrier like a twig.

Distantly he could hear Gilda shouting for everyone to run. She did not have the power to contain this much magic. Alaric felt his flesh searing and his bones creaking. At the last moment, he let all of it out, unleashing a torrent of flame straight into the sky.

Alaric panted as he turned to Danath Trollbane. The old man's face gracefully held his shock.

"Lord General Danath...on my honor... I am a friend. I give you my loyalty...and my word...I pledge that I am your man."

Danath Trollbane's expression cracked, and the man laughed.

Author's note: Hey everyone! Hope you enjoyed the chapter. Merry Christmas and happy holidays!


	10. Chapter 9: Winding Threads

**Chapter 9: Winding Threads**

The light in the tent had dimmed. One of the two moon's of Azeroth had begun to filter into the tent through empty branches, casting dancing shadows across the canvas. Alaric ran his hands through long, blonde hair as he recalled his time in Outland. It was plain to Osra that the wound in his side still pained him greatly, but it was healing slowly.

"The Expedition...I still feel amazement fill my heart when I hear of their survival. Almost twenty years stranded." Osra remembered the portents and ripples of chaos and fear sweeping across the four corners of the world when the Dark Portal had reopened. Even here, so far north in this ruined land, uncertainty and terror gripped the air. From the south, the unknown doom behind the Portal, and in the north, the shambling undead hordes of the Scourge.

For many years after the sealing of the link between Azeroth and Draenor, the archmage Khadgar and those thousands lost on the far side of the portal were remembered as heroes. Their names were struck up in lists on every major town hall across the Kingdoms, statues and icons cropping up overnight. Even small cults, devoted to the sacrifices of the Expedition had circulated, claiming them saintly.

When the rumors and jumbled hearsay from the distant Dark Portal's reopening filtered north, the tidings told of those heroes of old, long thought dead, still roaming the dusty plains of the orcish homeland. Osra remembered her disbelief. Having since joined the Argent Dawn, the news had visibly raised the morale of its fighters, encouraging them further to continue the struggle.

"A hard lot they became." The elf replied. He stood, testing the bandages of his wound and flexing his right arm. He winced as reminders of the torn sinew and bone shot through torso.

"I still find it hard to believe anyone could survive in such devastation." Osra remarked "And isolation."

"I could say the same for anyone in these Plaguelands." Alaric considered.

"The blood elves led by Kael'thas had come to Outland seeking a sanctuary and a cure to the magic addiction we suffered after the tainting of the Sunwell, Lord Danath explained that to me. That much makes sense. In the wake of the Sunwell's corruption, I had half-heartedly proposed to Prince Kael'thas that we take whom we could and travel west across the Great Sea following the ancient nautical charts left from both our ancestors and Jaina Proudmoore's fleet so as to reach Kalimdor. There, we could find the magic we craved in the same pools that birthed our Sunwell."

"Instead, the Prince charged me and several others to lead the ships fleeing the wreckage of Silvermoon; to ensure the survival of the elves as a race, and to gather as many of our populace, cultural artifacts, and records as possible, and take them to safe harbor. Those few who still had the heart to fight, he would take south, gathering an army to aid the Alliance in the war. So compassionate he was that day, so full of hope and promise and life. He had inspired me."

"I had been broken, you see. The fall of Quel'thalas and the loss of the Sunwell had - extinguished my fire. The Prince had reignited it."

Osra watched as the elf's eyes glassing in memory.

"I dutifully obeyed my Prince, taking the refugees from Silvermoon to Southshore, Boralus, and Menethil Harbor and then I left for the front as soon as I could. Eventually, acting on that plan mentioned earlier, I eventually found myself there in the midst of the Alliance's greatest heroes, searching for Kael'thas. What I found on that world was a truth blacker than any I'd ever expected."

Outland, Two Years Past

Winds blew from the north echoing off the ramparts of the shells of castles and dwellings throughout the land. Lightning sparked to and fro in the distance, marking the battle between the warm northerly breezes and the bitter southern gales blowing in from the Void.

Alaric gazed out at the unnatural landscape of Draenor from Danath's solar. Honor Hold had been built as a towering testament to the might of Azeroth and the Alliance thirty years ago. The rock had been carried from Azeroth through the Dark Portal by the thousands of tons, making the walls and towers of the mighty castle seem to stick out like a sore thumb in the red wastes of Outland. Originally, at least.

Years of continued warfare had taken their toll on the fortress, and repairs were undertaken using stone cut from quarries, giving the castle a rather odd, varied patchwork appearance. The triple walls were increasingly redder rather than grey the further out one got, as if the essence of Draenor were with time slowly swallowing them.

Inside the massive wall complex, the bailey and squares had been cleared for herding animals and horses, the descendants of the creatures that had made the trip from Azeroth. Specific officers were assigned to the personnel to make sure they met quotas and properly separated livestock in terms of their nutritional values and roles.

Everything here had a role. Alaric could see that all was ordered and calm. The people here knew what to do, when to do it, and how to do it. Most had repeated the same processes near their whole lives now. It was necessary in order to survive deep in enemy territory, cut off from everything.

"We grow our own crops in the fields and in the glasshouses, keep our own animals, irrigate our lands, mend our walls and roofs, smith our broken swords, mine our minerals, gather ice from the mountains, and all else a functioning society performs." Danath mentioned as he observed Alaric staring out at his castle-city.

"How do you irrigate? There is no water here. I know once there was a sea, but the rupturing of this world drained its shores from this land."

The old soldier motioned his head for the elf to follow. They walked around the rimmed battlement of the drum keep in the middle of the Hold. The mountains, jagged and every bit as characteristic of Outland came into view. Their shadows cast dark spears across the valleys and plains below. A distant line of green swept from the white caps of the mountains, descending into a valley just beyond the northern outer wall.

"A river. I see." Alaric smiled.

"No, you do not. It is a aqueduct. We built it some twenty and five years ago when the last of the lakes wisped away. It supplies our fresh water and allows us to grow." Danath explained, waving his hand at the land beyond the walls. Palms and green vegetation, all familiar and recognizable, grew in neat rows surrounded by paddies of rice fields.

"All of the seedlings were brought from Azeroth before the Portal collapsed. We were fortunate to have a horticulturalist accompany the Expedition. Master Kathirne had studied the herbs and flora at the Acorn Academy in Lordaeron before the war. She came with the Expedition along with many civilians to study this new world and support our operation. She was a master of her art."

"Was?"

"Kathirne contracted the white flux and died long ago. Her expertise lives on though, as you can see. Our engineers who built the aqueduct, they too have long since departed. They were dwarves of the Badlands, and with the mountains in their heart they departed for the Blade's Edge and never returned. We never found the scantest trace of them since." Danath stared hard at the rugged mountains that seemed to pierce the very sky itself.

"How many have you lost throughout the years?" Alaric asked tentatively, knowing it would be a painful subject for the man.

"Too many. A hundred and fifty thousand marched these lands before Khadgar sealed the Portal. There remain here in Hellfire Peninsula some nineteen thousand souls. About a third of that number are too old or young to handle a sword. We have other strongholds spread across Outland though. Their numbers equal ours if combined. Most died of starvation, thirst, or disease in the first years. Not even orc blades killed as many of us as hunger and cholera."

Alaric nodded. Such was usually the case in war.

"As callous as it sounds, I am still surprised at the number of survivors. Against all odds you have not only survived, but flourished it seems. " The elf stated.

"Floushied. Pah!" Danath's mood grew dark. "If you fight against all odds to merely exist you are not flourishing. There is no joy and relief here. We have not built a civilization or society. Everyone knows their role. If they step out of line, they are expelled, imprisoned for labor, or hanged if they commit crime. Every man woman and child can perform their duties, else wise they are a leech on our meager resources and I do not suffer leeches."

Alaric was taken aback by Danath's brutal truthfulness. The measures seemed harsh, but the elf could see the necessity. In Quel'thalas, such actions would have been seen as wicked and atrocious, but then again, the elves had always likened themselves as enlightened above humankind.

"You mentioned children."

"There were a great many children. In our first years, nearly a thousand births. Those that survived childhood are among our youngest. The number of men to women is disproportionate, so our numbers decline with every year. Honor Hold _insists_ on as many children born as possible so we may replenish our ranks."

Something cold struck Alaric. The honesty and casualness of the statement brought a wave of sadness and shock over him. Indeed, these were people with their backs to the wall. Every year the bulk of what remained of the Expedition grew older, and every year there were less to man the walls and farm the fields. The situation was starkly similar to those enacted this very day in the remote pockets of Lordaeron that still held out. He himself had issued decrees for "population control and replacement" among his elves so that they may not die out so meekly as their numbers dwindled with the fall of Quel'thalas.

_Necessities. _Alaric thought darkly. Sometimes he himself wondered if not everyone in Azeroth, and now here in Outland, had lost a little piece of their souls in the wars that washed continually over them all. When acts committed in innocent love became preordained laws, then a line had been crossed. Alaric mused if anyone but the children of the next generation could ever go back across that line and recapture some essence of normality.

"And the orcs. They lived through the sundering of this world, as I have already seen. How many of them remain?" Alaric turned his thoughts to the old enemy.

"A great many. Most of their hosts are led by my nemesis, Kargath Bladefist. Kargath calls himself Warchief and likes to think himself Orgrim Doomhammer's successor. While he is a great fighter, he is not a great leader." Danath smiled slightly, no doubt thinking of his past battles.

"Had he half the mind Doomhammer was, there would be nothing left of Honor Hold nor the Sons of Lothar."

Alaric loosed a rare chuckle. Many orcs had sought to prove themselves worthy of Doomhammer's legacy. None had succeeded.

"Not all the orcs follow Bladefist. There are some in the hills and plains past the Blade's Edge Mountains. Their tribes are native in nature. They never travelled to Azeroth, and if we do not bother them, they leave well enough alone. Our fight is with Kargath, the demons on this world, and your brethren."

"They came some years ago." Alaric began, somewhat hesitantly. "You might not have heard of what has occurred in Azeroth since their arrival."

"Nay, I've not. I fear the worst though. Has the entire world been touched by war?" Danath rubbed a scar that crossed his balding head. It was white and ropy, inflicted long ago. Alaric glanced at the shields that hung on the wall.

Each bore the sigil of its former owner. The elongated heart for Tallhart, a purple flame billowing white smile for House Aetreus. The quadrant field of House Holmne bearing its star, tower, stroke of lightning, and sword painted on a buckler hung in the far corner of the room. Shields from all seven kingdoms of man hung here. Two longer, more ornate barriers formed from living wood and painted with golden leaves marked two elves from the high blooded Durdan Irr's estate-fortress in the Eversong Wood. They must've been of the noble Arr family. Alaric reminisced briefly about his travels through Quel'thalas and Azeroth as a child. Then he remembered.

"The last I heard from Stromgarde was of the pain of your countrymen. Your King, Thoras Trollbane, is dead. He was slain by an assassin's blade while we fought against the Lich King in Northrend. I grieve with you for he was a friend, and it pains me to bring dark tidings in already dark times." Alaric said.

Danath sat down, casting his head downward. For a long while silence filled the solar.

"My uncle rides with his ancestors in the glory of the Light then." The balding commander stroked his grey stubble somewhere between thought and sadness. "A mighty man Thoras was. I always aspired to be like him when growing up. Then I decided my skills lay in pure soldiery, not statecraft and traditions. Has Prince Galen taken to the Arathi Throne?"

"I've not heard. I would assume he has. The young man has a lot of work cut out for him. Stromgarde suffered greatly during the Third War. Both the Legion and the undead Scourge rampaged through its lands, and a great many battles were fought there. It was in Stromgarde that the tide of the war turned and the Alliance halted our enemies."

"I see." Danath reached for a cup filled with what looked like warm, malted beer. "To you, Uncle." He raised the stein and drank deeply.

"I can hear more of home later. You wish to know of your people here in Outland." Danath changed the subject.

Alaric turned grim.

"Tell me of them."

Danath stared hard into Alaric's eyes. The elf felt the man's gaze boring deep into him. Alaric knew what he was about to hear would not be pleasant.

"They came in a great host from the south, emerging from a portal. There have been sporadic rifts opened between this world and others, remnants of the orc shaman Ner'zhul's meddling with dark magics."

"Ner'zhul lives?" Alaric questioned. He recalled rumors of the Horde's warchief in Draenor, the one who took over command of the clans after the defeat of Doomhammer. There was even talk that the old orc's pupil was the great warlock, Gul'dan.

"Nay. Ner'zhul was killed at some point or another. Just another thing slain in the endless conflict that engulfs this world. We never found his body, nor did the any of the orc clans that we know of. The warping doorways he opened were similar to the one your kin travelled through to arrive here." 

"Their mages felt the ripples of our wizards tapping magics and sought us out. They told us of their journey through Outland, and of the wars that burned the old world to cinders. Their tales were dreadful. For so long we held onto the fact that we had sacrificed ourselves to remain behind on this hell and secure a better future for Azeroth...then these elves tell us the undead Scourge and the demon Legion destroyed all we fought for." Danath scowled, hiding pain and helplessness behind a mask of anger.

"The elves had arrived some years ago, settling in the far eastern reaches of Outland that we call the Netherstorm. It is as violent and unstable a place as any on this world. The evil of the Twisting Nether runs strongly through that dark place. A perfect place for such vile creatures."

Alaric leaned in, puzzled as to what must've happened that drove his people and these survivors apart so harshly so as to end in violence.

"After working their way into our graces, breaking bread and drinking mead with us, they began asking questions. Things such as where Khadgar was, what magical artifacts we had, what we knew of the orc's positions, our numbers and strengths. They worked their way amongst my men, drinking them down in the taverns and in the fields. Our spirits, though crushed by the news of home, were lifted by the arrival of friends."

"When they heard what they wanted, they turned on us. Honor Hold was engulfed in flame as they called down demon infernals upon us. They raided our supplies, taking three of our amplifying amulets. They hunted down our wizards, killing six of them here at Honor Hold. Gilda was able to commune with Khadgar, who returned just in time to drive off the traitorous sons of whores." Danath spat.

"I lost more than a hundred. Our most powerful amplifying siphons, each able to make our casters a dozen times more powerful, were stolen. Most of our mage contingent was lost, and our homes cast down and flamed. And for it all, these blood elves used fel demon magic. They are traitors to their people, their honor, and the memory of their country. I would suggest you abandon your folly search for them. You will only find disappointment and enemies." Danath adviced gravely.

Alaric considered all that the grizzled veteran had told him, the confusion in his mind growing into a swirling horror. Slipping deep into thought, he tried to imagine the proud Kael'thas killing his own people and allies. How could it come to that?

"I cannot imagine my kin doing such a thing. I won't believe it." Alaric said staunchly.

"We could not believe it either, when counting our dead." Danath retorted.

"There must be some reason; some cause as to why they would do such a thing." The elf shook his head in disbelief.

"They've fallen to some corruption, no doubt. Lotus tel Tallon, one of your captors, speculates their use of demon magic drove them mad."

"I'd be lying if I said I'd not dabbled in fel energies. They have a potent kick, and certainly intoxicating - but my blood elf bretheren and I always agreed they were for short term use only...until we found an alternative source of magic. For them to actively insinuate themselves amongst you then strike...that is not madness. That is calculation." Alaric pondered.

"It cannot be Kael'thas. He is the hope and rightful king of our people. I reclaimed Quel'thalas for the blood and high elves. We are one people, not two. Kael'thas is family to me, and I spent many years with him, studying at the Conclave of Quel'danas. He would not do such things. Have you had word of him?"

"Nay, but for the fact he came here with his zealot followers."

"He must be held captive, or dead. I cannot imagine my own blood doing such acts against those we've fought alongside for so long. Against our own kind! I must find him." Alaric looked toward the ominous mountains.

"I warn you now, do not pursue such folly. There are few places safe for friends of Azeroth on this world, especially lone wanderers." Danath clasped Alaric's shoulder, dragging him back into the solar. The shields of his fallen knights glinted as the sun's last light bathed the room in orange.

"I came to this world using a power I can no longer touch. If I can find Kael and gather those of my people whose hearts are still true, perhaps I can find a way for us all to return."

"Were it possible I would aid you, but the mucker orcs have moved into the area of the Gates of Zangar." Danath noted the confusion that flashed on Alaric's face and realized his mistake. "Our name for the native brown-skinned Mag'har tribes. They're feral orcs that never made the crossing to Azeroth or joined the Horde. They follow traditional migration patterns."

"A few orcs do not scare me, regardless of their color." Alaric harrumphed, smashing a fist into his open palm.

"They should. The Mag'har are unlike any other greenskin you've encountered. They use strange powers dare I say even you have never encountered. We've left them alone and they us for the most part. In fact, we've even traded with them from time to time. I would ask you leave them be and steer clear. Honor Hold and the Sons of Lothar need not more enemies."

"There must be other paths I can take. Through the mountains, or-"

"That would be the only way to journey to the Netherstorm at the moment. The Twisting Nether has drawn closer of late." Danath pointed outside the doorway to the balcony. Great wispy bands of what seemed spiraling gases streaked across the skies, diffusing the sun and starlight into fog.

"It is prone to contractions. When they come, more demons than normal are spit out through the cosmos. They congregate in highly magic-saturated areas; Shadowmoon Valley to the south, the Netherstorm, and the Blade's Edge Mountains. You can ask Gilda more about the phenomenon. All I know is that when it begins, we deal with more attacks and roamers than normal."

"Paths rather than the Gates of Zangar would be as if marching through the Nether itself." Danath cast his huge hand across a map of Outland that plastered the wall.

"You can ask Gilda more about the phenomenon. All I know is that when it begins, we deal with more attacks and roamers than normal."

"How long do these contractions last?" Alaric asked, growing annoyed.

"Who's to say. We've experienced three in our three decades here. One lasted a few days, the longest more than a year. Those were lean times."

Alaric sighed in frustration. He could not demand that these old veterans lift their swords to march for him alone on so much as a hope, and his pride kept him from pleading.

_I have come at the worst possible time._

Alaric tore himself away from the map, angrily pacing about the room.

_Trapped on an alien world - helpless. A kinstrife among my own people when they need to be united the most. What am I here for?_

Silence filled the room for long minutes. Eventually, Danath spoke up.

"If you wait - if you remain here with us, helping us grow strong, teaching us your craft, plowing the fields, scouting and raiding, then there _will _come a time soon that the opportunity to search for Prince Kael'thas. I can assure you, the Mag'har will not camp in the north eternally. We have seen them come and go year after year."

Alaric considered.

"I cannot wait long, Trollbane. Every day that passes is another that more of my people die."

"Aye, such is the shadow that hangs over us all." Danath finished his mug with a deep swig.

Later that Day

Danath watched as the elf strode out the door, escorted by a still distrustful looking Gilda. He turned to the keg behind his desk, proceeding to fill his stein again with the thick, warm beer. It was malty stuff, made with hops that had surprisingly taken to the natural soil here.

_With Uncle Thoras dead, young Galen will take the throne. He was but a babe when I left. I can't even remember what he looks like. _

He felt a slight itch when he thought of Stromgarde. The itch had long since disappeared, until those sons of whores blood elves had arrived. Their coming meant that return was still possible. Escape from this place was feasible. Before their appearance, he'd all but given up on a homecoming.

_Alleria, Turalyon, did you ever manage to find Azeroth? And did the horrors that now live there kill you? _The long lost commanders of the Expedition had departed long ago, stepping through one of Ner'zhul's last portals to find help or passage home. They'd never returned.

Khadgar went north into the forests of Terrok to find his mysterious 'answers' and never returned. So many had gone and never come back.

_I want to return home. _Danath thought. But in the back of his mind a voice echoed _If half of what the elves say is true, there is no home to return to. All has changed._

"You can come out, Lotus." Danath rasped.

From the rafters above, the lithe form of Lotus tel Tallon dropped like a silent shadow, her bow still in her hands.

"Did you have your sights on him the entire time?"

"He is not to be trusted." She warned, brushing her light, creamy hair from her face.

"I decide who is to be trusted and not." The man said in a grizzly voice. "You would do well not to shoot my guests."

Lotus scoffed, barely shrugging her shoulders .

_Insolent. _

"You are a young girl. You wouldn't know."

"I'm older than you." The elf protested.

"Aye, and your kind mature slower to make up for those ridiculous life spans of yours. Most of what you remember is from this red planet. I've fought a hundred battles on different worlds each."

"My whole life has been a battle!" Lotus nearly shouted. His authority restrained her...barely.

"Aye, it has." Danath admitted. "But you barely recall what a blue sky was like. You can't see clearly the spires of cities, the smell of thatched roof or pine needles, the sea breeze as the great salt oceans stretch on forever. You can't imagine a world where peace, justice, and trust reigns, because you've never known it. But you are one in ten thousand who are like this. To you all, home and everything it stands for is but a dream."

Her eyes narrowed. "I didn't come here to be patronized. I came to finish him swiftly should he attempt malice."

"I do not trust Alaric either, Lotus. He is not telling the whole truth. Perhaps we've forgotten how to trust outsiders...it's been too long since we've seen any."Danath strode to the balcony of Honor Hold's drum keep, Lotus following.

"Keeping him prisoner would not suffice. Alaric'Quel has power. And he has the greatest bargaining chip of all: the way home. If he came here, he knows how to take us back to Azeroth."

"Clap him in chains until he agrees to return us. If we recall the other mages from Allerian Stronghold in Terrokar-"

"Were you not in Hangman's Square this morning? Did you not see him shatter Gilda's dampener? She is among the finest mages I've ever seen, including Antonidas. She is second only to Khadgar in Outland, should he still live. If this elf so wished, he could level Honor Hold right now. This Alaric'Quel...he might well be equal to Khadgar himself. We must play him for the time being, until we know his true character."

"That is why you lied to him about the Mag'har?"

"Indeed" The mucker orcs did not wander when the Nether closed in. The dangers were too great.

_I will not have our last chance of return wandering off to die or disappear like Alleria, Turalyon, and Khadgar. He does not know Outland. He does not understand its pitfalls and nature. This place is unlike anything even he has seen before. _

"He must be handled delicately. With the Nether's contractions, Kargath and his minions grow stronger. The Horde will rally from the Ramparts, the Black Citadel, and the eastern fringes of Hellfire Peninsula. They will come here and strike at us. No time is as ripe for them to do so than when their allies draw closer. We need Alaric's power on our side. I must have him in this army. We all must have him." Danath explained.

"Escort Alaric'Quel at all times. Familiarize him with everything here. Make him feel at home. Give him your bunk to sleep in, seduce him if you must. Keep him within Honor Hold for the time being." Danath nearly chuckled when he saw her face contort. She was pretty, graceful and charming...when she chose to be. No doubt she'd caught Alaric's eye. He did not seem past the age of elfhood where the desire to couple faded.

"You-what?! No!" She recoiled. "I am not some tavern slut!"

"Keep-him-here. I don't care how you do it, or what you do." Danath's voice was cold like steel.

The elf's face reddened as she grew more flustered and furious.

"You're obsessed with Azeroth. You heard Alaric and the other blood elves when they came here; Rommath, Tae'thelan, and Astalor Bloodsworn. It's gone. Quel'thalas is a burned husk, Lordaeron crawls with the undead, Dalaran was pulverized by the demons, and Kul-Tiras is kingless and without its navy. Even your precious Stromgarde was mutilated beyond recognition. We are better off here."

_Trying to change the subject, eh?_

"If Azeroth was nothing but a burned cinder, we would march into its blackened ruins to the drums of our ancestor's ghosts. You have my orders. Now go."

Lotus nodded, face still blushed with infuriation. She managed a stifled 'yes, sir' before leaving.

_I believe I will die here one day. _He thought to himself as he looked over the landscape. _But as long as there is a chance...maybe, just maybe..._

He turned toward where the Black Citadel stood. Though he could not see it beyond the horizon, he knew it well. A hundred meter tower made of a single slab of obsidian, surrounded by a compound built at the pinnacle of the Horde's power. Enclosing the massive complex, fifty foot ramparts bolted together over many years. Tens of thousands of orcs would be milling there. They knew the Nether approached. They could probably feel it. The thought made the hairs on Danath's arms stand on end.

Glancing at the sky, he watched as the spiraling, nebulous bands gradually enveloped the stars.

_Light, if it persists as long as the last one... _Kargath would march sometime in the coming days, weeks, or months, orc armies bolstered with unnatural demons and mutants. They would strike at the height of the squall, when their allies were closest and nigh endless.

_We do not have the power to hold them here. We are too spread out. _Danath thought of the other encampments strewn across Outland. When last the Nether had come near, all the remnants of the Expedition returned to take refuge within the walls of Honor Hold, presenting a unified force. This one though...it had come all too quickly. Within the last week there were already reports of felhound packs roaming thick through Terrokar Forest. From the Blade's Edge Mountains came distant shadows with monstrous wings. Reports of unnamed horrors to the east, west, and north came from bloodied, rider-less horses.

_They want us to be afraid. _

"Alaric'Quel, eh?" Danath muttered. "Luckily for us, you came at the best possible time." He placed the empty stein on the table, unsheathing his sword to knick the rust off it.

Bonus Entry: The Twisting Nether

Throughout the universe, innumerable worlds are scattered between the distant stars. Each world is wrapped in an infinite plane greater than itself, to the mortal eye giving it a rounded and spherical presence among the other celestial bodies.

Between these various realms and the other heavenly cosmos, even flowing straight through them, are the fundamental aspects of energy that allow for the coalescence of elements in all forms; the forces of binding and repelling, heat, light, and motion. Varying amounts of these energies can be harnessed by the mortal and immortal beings of the universe, given that they possess a set of inherited traits. The manipulation of these underlying, universal energies is called by some the channeling of magic.

In the eventual happenstance brought forth from the universe's primordial disorder , the regions where this magic energy was densest formed a twirling feature that stretched across the endless Void: the realm today known as the Twisting Nether. Older than the stars and the planes of existence, this realm existed long before the inception of Azeroth or its denizens.

Within the deepest core of the Nether lay an eternal engine of chaos, with random combinations of magic and matter resulting in the production of horrific and unnaturally vile creatures. Other beings, born from the material worlds that we associate ourselves with, flocked to the outskirts of the Void's greatest landmark. From here, they drank its dark energies and became twisted and malformed themselves.

With the coming of the Titans who sought to bring order to their disorderly surroundings, an inevitable war loomed. The forces of chaos and order clashed and since time immemorial have held a long, bloody stalemate across the Void.

It is in this stalemate that all we know has come to pass.

Authors Note: Hey all, I'm back! Sorry for the long absence. In the mean time, I completed my Master's degree and got a job so life's been all over the place. For the time being I'm settling back into a routine which will FINALLY allow me to write again.

I took extensive notes on my free time for both this story and future ones (fanfictions and otherwise), so rest assured my plans and dreams to keep writing have not faded, nor shall they!

Alaric is beginning his ride through Outland, which I'll say is a medium-sized arc that is necessary for the plot of the overall story. Before you know it, we'll have the pieces in place and he'll be returning to Azeroth the jaded elf we now know, unsure of his future and role in the world.

But that, and Alaric's greater fate, lie in wait for us in the months to come!

Thanks again for waiting on me, and I'm glad to be back. Looking forward to writing, posting, and hearing back from ya'll!

Omegatrooper


	11. Chapter 10: Links

**Chapter 10: Links**

Lotus tel'Tallon found the blood elf wandering aimlessly outside the walls of Honor Hold. He'd dressed down in a clean white tunic and baggy brown trousers, a far cry from the blood stained armor they'd found him in. She'd assumed the shoulder pads had made him look larger than he was, but his chest was still quite broad. She spied a newly healed scar that dug into his left breast, right above the heart. It looked quite new, pink and shiny swollen. More scars and old wounds crisscrossed his torso, the signs of his heavy burdens.

Alaric stared up at the sky, looking at the endless fields of stars banding across the chilled night sky.

"Trying to spy Azeroth?" Lotus announced her presence with the question. Alaric was not taken aback. He seemed to anticipate her arrival.

"I am studying the new constellations." He answered absentmindedly.

"Constellations?"

"The positions of the astral bodies; they're different from Azeroth…beautiful in a way, though the Nether mars their presence." The nebulous bands of the hellish realm snaked about as they always had, looping around stars to drink their energies, stretching beyond the eye's reach.

"You can take the bunk in the first barrack to the right of the south motte and bailey. Danath's gift to his honored guest." She said with thinly veiled sarcasm.

Alaric ignored her, opting to continue staring at the sky like an idiot. Lotus' hand twitched in annoyance.

"The others are asking why you don't use the power that got you here to take them home." Lotus said.

"I can't. It was a one way trip." Alaric answered without any hint of regret.

"You're lying." The elf woman stated.

"And how would you know? You understand nothing about me. I know that you don't trust me or like me. You've had your bow on me since the moment I was brought within these walls."

"I can read you like a book, Alaric'Quel. From the way you were dressed when we found you, you had obviously been in a battle. What happened? Are you really just running from whatever it was that beat you, rather than being strong and standing up to it? If so you are a coward."

Alaric seemed to be enjoying Lotus' intuition, smiling slightly.

"And so why would I run to this place? It is as close to hell as anything."

"Because you knew where it was. You knew that you had people who would take you in, either us or your bloody elven bastards. But – If you could not stand something so powerful as to challenge your sense of the way the world should be, then you are an egotist, and you came here for the same reasons that your brethren did; for power."

"But if you really did come here to reunite the broken kindred's of elf and shepherd them back to old Quel'thalas then you must know a way back, for above all, as a mage you discern that there is no simple passage through the Void between the universe's worlds. If this is true and everything you have claimed to be is genuine, then you are a liar for telling us you cannot take us home to Azeroth. I say that you know a way back, but refuse to speak it for us-the Sons of Lothar, for you favor those vile cousins of yours."

"Coward, power-hungry, or deceiver, you are cast in a wicked light." Lotus finished. For a moment, there was silence. Alaric's eyes flashed green and uneasy for the briefest moment before his calm returned.

"If our people are truly mad, I will find whatever it is that drove them so. They cannot be beyond redemption. You cannot truly believe that elf can fall on elf in such a manner, can you? Not since the days of the most ancient Sundering has such an atrocity occurred."

"Twenty four Sons of Lothar died the day _they_ came into our walls. I saw brothers and sisters die beside me."

"You judge an entire people on the deaths of just twenty four?"

"Just twenty four?" Lotus hissed, incredulous. She stepped forward and in an instant and slapped Alaric across the cheek, twisting his head to the side.

"They were our family. How dare you say we don't have the right to judge? We built a way to survive in this shithole. For _decades _we had only each other." She could hear her own heavy breathing, her anger threatening to break into tears. She could see the faces of the slain Sons of Lothar lying in the dirt trench after the blood elves had taken what they wanted and left. She heard the bugle echoing as they were covered in the red soil of this world.

_Willem, Veera, Tannyr_

"I've seen plenty of family die. I know what it is like. I was there when Silvermoon fell; when nothing less than the utter genocide of our people took place."

"I saw nothing less than the wholesale slaughter of innocents, their torrents of blood filling the streets. I saw children smothered by their own parents rather than face the fate that was befalling them. I was there at the docks, when tens of thousands drowned trying to flee to the last boats. The bay was so full of bodies you could walk a mile to shore without touching the water. And those are just glimpses of the horrors that took place day by day for years."

"I have witnessed armies rising out of the killing fields; the very souls I'd fought with not a hour before now mindless husks controlled by some lich or necromancer. I've tasted the ashes in the air from the shattered cities of a half dozen nations. You couldn't imagine the things I've seen. Until you realize loss on the scale of civilizations you won't understand me." Alaric said without looking at her. His tone was cold and condescending.

_Bleda, Harma, Oulin, Alistair_

"I don't care what you've seen. You are a brute who cares little for the meaning of lives. I was always taught by our _high _elven kin that life is the most precious resource of all. Do you see nothing in the eyes of those around you? Are lives just numbers?"

"Pain is relative." Alaric argued. "To overcome pain, you must disconnect yourself from it. I learned long ago to remove myself from the blood on my hands. It's the only way to truly command. Ignore it, command it, and master it. Use it to fuel you."

_Naelin, Anduin, Brethias, Jethica, Aurelian_

"Running from pain and not accepting the consequences of your actions; a craven way to live." Lotus stepped back. Alaric's cheek had begun to turn red.

"What I am doesn't matter. I used to care about justice and honor. I thought I cared about revenge when we stormed Northrend." Alaric seemed to stare right through her, his eyes glazing in memory. "Only one thing really matters."

Lotus waited for an end to his statement. Instead, the elf shook his head and stood up straight.

"I will return our all of our people to Azeroth; the Sons of Lothar and the blood elves. We will return to heal and rest. The wars have been long, and we need to bind our wounds. Splintered, the pack will die...whole, the pack survives, strives, and succeeds."

"Those you wish to reconcile us with - they turned on us like wild beasts. I saw them drain the life from mages for their mana. They burned our hospital and melted our walls. Since that day, they've not come hither. No one has seen them or heard of them save the whispers from the Mag'har orcs and the ethereal traders. Do you think we will simply forget what happened? These people are not the same as you remember them. These people here though, the sons and daughters of Azeroth are more your people than they."

Alaric put on a stubborn face. ""Then I shall cleanse those who committed such foul acts. These elves cannot all be corrupted. Prince Kael'thas is a smart and strong leader. He is my blood. The Prince came here to find a cure for our magical addiction, not revel in some fantasy kingdom of debauchery and bloodshed."

"And what of us? Will you take us home with you?" Lotus asked.

"I will try. We owe much to the soldiers of the Expedition, but I owe even more to my people. If you don't come with me, I do not know if we will have the power to open a Gateway indefinitely."

"And you expect us to wait for you to return? We cannot leave our lands without being utterly destroyed by the Horde. You know this."

"To my name I have a legacy of sin and death, and I will not let it be for naught." Alaric said.

_He would leave us to distract the orcs and demons from his journey east. _Lotus felt cold as she realized the elf's intentions. He was not the kindling hope that Danath had thought he was.

"I gave my word to fight with you - for now. But the reason I came here stands: I will reunite the elves. We will go home."

_He refuses to listen. _

"The world is not so kind as to allow everyone a happy ending, Faltron'Quel. Your quest is folly." Lotus turned to walk away.

"We'll see." She heard Alaric mutter in Thalassian.

_I pity you, Alaric. If that is what you really want, then you will be sorely upset. You can't will things to happen, no matter how much you want. _Lotus thought as she strode away.

Honor Hold

Alaric'Quel sat almost totally enveloped in the shadows that draped the end of Honor Hold's long hall. Ten hearths blazed, the Draenori fungus-wood giving off a unique, sour smoke. The swirling, smelly clouds made the dusty banners that hung from the rafters somewhat hazy. Alaric blinked through the stinging smoke trying to make out what exactly was embroidered on their cloth.

The hall had been empty save for an old man and woman sweeping red dust into neat piles. Then a group of soldiers had entered the hall, swigging skins of something. They'd been laughing and joking until they saw him, staring at them passively from the shadows.

Disliking his stare, they removed themselves to the far end of the room, creating an awkward space. Every once in a while one of the burly oafs would shoot a suspicious or hateful glance. They were speaking about him in hushed tones, although Alaric could pick up on some of their conversation with his elf-ears.

_Perhaps they wonder why I don't come over to speak with them? _Alaric wondered. Alaric had always removed himself from the commoners, whether the peasantry or the soldiers under his command. He'd kept to his select inner circle of friends, confidants, and equals. It was not that the elf saw them as less than he, or was a supremacist in any way, it was just that…

_The more bonds, the more pain, _he thought. It was one thing to fight alone, but to command hundreds of men and women who would die on a word or motion your hand? Removing oneself from situations where you grew to care for masses whose lives and blood was on your hands was necessary when commanding from high above.

Alaric rubbed the cheek where Lotus had struck him. She clearly did not agree with this philosophy.

_But you no longer command anything, _voice chirped in his mind. _You gave up your commands, your responsibilities, and passed them onto Dethal and the others when you came here. These are not your men. They are just other people, the same as you. _

Still though, the elf did not move. He just stared, watching the faces at the end of the room grow dark at his watchful silence. They looked at him with the same eyes that Lotus did - boring, accusing gazes.

Lotus was interesting though, that much Alaric admitted to himself. She was passionate and very strong. In better times, she would have eventually been the model matron. In some strange way, Alaric found that he admired her convictions, naive as they may be.

"Fuckin' blood elf. Ought to rip his eyes out like they did to Hammon." Alaric heard one soldier mutter in his cup, clearly drunk at this point.

_Bitter old men on a bitter world, _Alaric thought.

"Oi! That's enough Bryne! He's a friend from Azeroth." A tall, blonde man hissed back. He had been quiet this whole time, but Alaric remembered him being one of the loud ones when they'd captured him.

"I apologize for my idiot friend's behavior." The blonde said, standing and walking over to Alaric. He held out a hand. "Jurgen's the name." He flashed a broad smile full of yellow, crooked teeth.

"Jurgen Klein. I remember." Alaric answered, clasping the man's hand. Jurgen let loose a howling laugh that took Alaric by surprise.

"Join us, will you? Our honor begs a guest to drink all he can hold in Honor Hold." Klein offered Alaric his beer. "It's the only thing recreational here, besides."

"No thank you. I don't partake in drink." Alaric waved the wooden cup away.

" Ya - Ya' don't partake?" Klein shook his head in dismay but quickly changed the subject. "Tell me about you. I want to know about the life of Alaric'Quel; the elf who broke the Void." The soldier's friends ignored the exit of the lofty blonde and continued to chatter amongst themselves.

Alaric smiled. "There's not much to tell I'm afraid. It would be mostly the same as your story I'm sure. I traveled a bit when young, fought in a few wars, went on some boat rides and traveled more, then fought some more. In all, my life makes for a repetitive story."

Jurgen frowned. "Well fine enough then. Let me tell you bout' the life of Jurgen Klein! It's nae' been repetitive! I've lived near four decades and already conquered the tallest mountains on two worlds! I swam across the Pelops Straight in a single night! I can drink...well, not nearly as much as a dwarf."

"I was an orchard hand when I was young, picking ripe and juicy peaches. Helped out on my father's farm until a circus came to town. The ladies had heard of my abilities with my...hands, and the men heard my lyre. 'Ner a coin purse held its own job when I was through with a town! I was king of the world, until the day some Dalari recruiters plucked me down from my throne by a tavern's hearth."

Alaric found himself chuckling at the bombastic man's self-spun tale. Jurgen went on for about an hour with hardly a pause. In the end, Alaric found himself enjoying the first real company outside of war councils and strained greetings in quite a while.

The hours passed as Jurgen recounted his bawdy life tales, laughing and jumping around like a man possessed. Clearly, the alcohol had gotten to him. Alaric found himself laughing at some of Jurgen's stories, and being genuinely intrigued by others.

"When we lit the torch, we found m-my fatha with the goat! Again!" Jurgen stammered and howled with laughter. He'd told the account two times before already, each time being slightly different.

_He doesn't remember telling me, _Alaric realized. The man was dead drunk.

The door to the great hall burst open, letting in a gust of cold, dry air. A man decked in armor rusted at the joints entered the hall tracking red mud. Alaric could already hear the sighs of those two who'd just cleaned the floors.

"Jurgen, we've been called up. Gather the lads." Meric Bastonn ripped off his horse-hair crested helmet. Alaric saw the footman glance at him for a moment before returning to the incessantly giggling Jurgen.

"Are we-going-to a brothel Mer?" Jurgen burst out into a fresh round of hoots.

"Stand up you idiot. Quit your fantasizing. You know there's not a brothel here. Remember brother: new world, new order." Meric shook his head in dismay at his comrade's inebriated antics.

"Aye, sir." Jurgen tried to straighten himself before collapsing to the ground in a puddle of intoxicated unconsciousness.

Alaric smiled wryly as he spied the vein throbbing with annoyance in Meric's temple. The man simply stared at his fallen soldier for a moment before turning his green eyes on Alaric.

"If you need another soldier, I'll partake in your mission." Alaric said, standing up. He stood a head taller than Meric, but the man across from him was twice of wide with muscle beneath his plate armors.

"You'll do. Your gear is in the armory. The clerk will know which set to pick up when you walk in." Meric acquiesced.

Alaric was somewhat surprised that these Sons of Lothar would just let him fall into place with them after the treatment he'd received so far. His surprise turned to eagerness quickly though. Eagerness to see this new world, to prove himself an aid to the cause of Honor Hold.

"And here I thought you didn't want me outside the walls of Honor Hold." Alaric said.

"What're you going to do? Run off into the wild? You know nothing of Draenor. The sun is different, the stars are foreign, the very dust is alien to you. You wouldn't last long out here by yourself."

"All the more reason to prove my worth to you. May I ask what we're seeking to do? Kill more orcs?" Alaric stood, gathering himself.

"There are far worse things than orcs on this world, Alaric'Quel." Meric threw open the doors, letting the afternoon sun blaze into the dank room.

Outside the castle's walls a crowd of soldiers gathered around a post, loading up their tied-off mounts. Lotus tel'Tallon's slender hands worked her mount's mane, soothing the horse as she untied her from the post. A swarthy, short man balanced two falchions on either hand, nodding with satisfaction before sheathing them behind his back. Another man, tall and muscle-bound with closely cropped dark hair and wide, grey eyes glaring at him. Curiously, the man had one dark eyebrow and one white one. Several dozen other riders were sheathing swords and securing baggage on their mounts.

"Fear not, Burdock. He's with us." Meric said, pointed to Alaric's mount; a brindled Borlan mare, with the characteristic lanky legs and streamlined body of its breed. The breed had been selected by many a Tirassian marine for its speed along the relatively flat, green plains of Kul Tiras.

"Where's Jurgen?" the large man asked.

"Likely regretting his decisions. Alaric, this is Burdock Trafford." He is Gilnean, so don't feel uncomfortable with his suspicious stares." Meric said.

"Is that a sense of humor, Mer? And all these years I thought you were dry as a rock." The short, swarthy swordsman smiled. A mouthful of gold teeth shone in the sunlight.

"This is Sinbad Slywaters. Don't trust him except in battle."

Sinbad laughed, eyeing Alaric up and down. "I didn't think ye'd live after the blow Burdock gave you to the head when we found ye. But now ya'r riding with us."

"Honored." Alaric answered brusquely. He turned his attention to their obvious commander, Meric. "What are we after?"

"There are three castles that guard the aqueduct; Honor Hold, Fort Highwater, and Castle Cloude. Several times the Horde has made concerted efforts to take them down and surround us, but we've beaten them off before. One of Archmage Gilda's apprentices scryed a band of warged orcs and ogres making their way toward Highwater. As far as I understand, they've set up a number of automated fields which warn them whenever intruders near, like a tripwire."

"Is there no blinking line between here and your castles? I assume they are close enough, and the ambient magic of this place is more than enough to teleport our numbers." Alaric asked.

Meric frowned, and Lotus came to his rescue.

"It is exactly that chaotic ambient magic that prevents us from setting up permanent lines to teleport from one location to the next. Unlike Azeroth, there are no Ley-line roads to work with, no way to use magic to transport one beyond what they can clearly see and mark."

They departed Honor Hold by the northern road, thirty strong. They made their way down a dusty path that led into the foothills of the ominous mountains. The land was sun-baked and dry, the soil under their horses' hooves curling back and cracking in protest. Alaric could almost feel the pain of the land as he looked around at the endless badlands. He could see what had once deep riverbeds, withered away forests, fossils stretching far beyond his elvish gaze.

With every gust of wind, alkaline dust blew in their faces, stinging eyes and flesh. Even near-immune to the elements as an elf, he felt his throat drying out as they neared their first target.

A rickety picket tower and small compound below it had been constructed amongst the ruins of some old city, blending in with the pillars and hollow shells of old buildings. The compound was covered in red clay to disguise it among the ruins of some old city.

"What was this place?" Alaric asked, curiously peering at the what was left of the alien architecture.

"Ancient draenei cities. There are many such ruins scattered across Outland. We use these ruins as a meeting place with the draenei traders. We usually find them scavenging or wandering nostalgically here." Lotus answered. "We have items they need, and they have things that we need."

"And what happened to these cities?" Alaric asked. The rubble stretched on for at least a half mile, down a series of hills. The ruins were punctuated into semicircles around a dried out riverbed. Some buildings were tall, honeycombed structures. Others were broken domes, filled with the shifting desert sands.

"War, famine, pestilence. Everything that is abundant on Draenor." Burdock spoke up, shaking his head.

"Quiet." Meric hissed, motioning for them to dismount. Alaric felt it too. The wind had died down, leaving only silence and the smell of blood.

The troop slowed, fanning out to ensure no sudden encirclement. Three bodies, mangled and headless, were impaled on steaks that hung off of the watch tower. All six hands of the bodies were also missing.

Above the dangling corpses was an orc flag, from which hung the three mutilated heads. To each forehead was pinned the missing hands.

"The Bladefist's mark." Meric spat. The bloody flag rippled a bloody crimson with a crushed orc hand emblazoned in the center.

"Monsters." Burdock began to swear under his breath.

"Does this happen often?" Alaric inquired. He regretted his lax choice of words when Lotus and the others shot him venomous glances.

_A touchy band, these people._

"No, it does not. You seem to be bringing the luck with you, Quel." Sinbad shook his head.

"This doesn't seem like luck." Alaric watched as the bodies swung back and forth on the creaking rope.

"I never said which kind."

Alaric lifted his hands, channeling the power that almost seemed to writhe in the very air around him. The bodies and gruesome banner burst into magical flame, cindering the remains.

"What in the Seven Hells are you doing?" Burdock pushed Alaric to the ground. The tower figure of Burdock stood over him with clenched fists.

"Cremating them." The elf said as he stood back up, holding back sudden anger.

"I don't know what kind of customs your clan follows, but we bury our dead, Alaric." Lotus said with a tone that reeked of disgust and continued annoyance. Alaric sighed in resignation. Suddenly, the wind picked up. The smoke from the bodies swirled and then slanted horizontally.

The horizon had begun to redden. Alaric felt his eyes stinging even more.

"A dust storm is rising." Someone spat.

"That was quick." Another commented.

"If this orc band has already hit the outer towers, then Highwater will be well under attack by now. To me, we ride to our brothers!" Meric grabbed the reins of his mount, pulling himself back onto it. The riders formed up behind him, galloping at full charge.

More plumes of smoke rose beyond a copse of dead trees on a hill. The wind had come to full gale, whipping and snapping around them. It had become hard to see beyond the copse...then, the trees disappeared. Then, the riders in front of Alaric shrunk of black shadows. He could barely make out the shapes of his companions, but did notice that some had wrapped cloths around their mouths and noses to keep out the dust.

Distant shouting and screaming carried over the wind. The battle was nearby, but where? They couldn't see anything! Brightness flared in the haze off to their life, signaling a wall of fire.

Alaric tried to shout for Meric, Lotus, or anyone, but none heard him. They continued at full tilt, right into the flank of a thick formation of orcs. Alaric saw Meric and several others thrown from their horses in the sudden confusion. Their wave was moving too quickly now to stop dead though.

_We rode right into them! _Alaric realized in astonishment. The surprise hit the orcs as hard as the riders. Ripples went through the thick columns of green, brown, and red skinned monsters. Orcs flew backwards as the horses reared with fear and foaming moths.

"OVER THEM!" Alaric heard Meric's voice boom over the whipping wind, orc screams, and frantic neighs. The momentum of the riders carried them deep into the orc line, which began to buckle under the weight of dozens of armored horsemen.

Alaric grasped the cold steel that had been given to him from the Honor Hold armory. It was nothing like _Quel'Barrer, _but it would suffice for killing orcs. He swung the curving falchion down at a particularly muscular and tall orc with a mane of black fur running down his back. The beast slammed Alaric's sword-wrist with surprising speed, sending the blade spinning away into the dust. The elf realized that even on horseback, the orc towered over him.

A hammy fist slammed into his face, making white stars dance in front of Alaric's eyes as he fell from the horse. The world's sound blotted out into a dim hum. The elf found himself lying on his back, choking on a metallic tasting liquid. Half-consciously, he raised his head to see the orc lifting a giant, jagged axe and cutting his horse's head clean off in a single stroke. More blood sprayed onto the supine elf as his mount's headless body was thrown to the side by the orc's giant charging frame.

Just as the monster seemed ready to stomp the life out of Alaric, three quarrels buried themselves deep in the orc's skull, two of them in its eyes. Someone stepped over Alaric. Another kicked at him, breaking a rib. A corpse, Alaric could not tell which, fell on him with crushing weight. The elf felt a sleepy longing aching in his head.

"No!" He told himself out loud. He reached out to the pain. Felt it and embraced it. _You're alive! Get up! UP!_

With all his strength, Alaric threw off the dismembered body that had fallen on him. He wiped away the blood from his broken nose and burst lip. Fresh streams took their place. A screaming orc appeared in his peripheral, arm outraised with a bloody maul.

Alaric spun and conjured the arcane, letting his hate for the greenskins act as a focus for his channeling. The orc instantly fell to the ground, flame consuming it from the inside out. Whirling around, Alaric grabbed another orc by the head and channeled currents of magic into the creature's skull. Backing away, the orc's eyes melted in their sockets and an unearthly, bloodcurdling scream erupted before being cut off by the internal flames.

"Back, back!" Sinbad Slywaters called out as Alaric stumbled into him in the chaos. "The ogre!"

The two-headed behemoth swung a wooden club back and forth, killing Horde and Alliance alike. In the confusion of the dust storm, it had gone completely berserk. Feathered arrows covered the savage, making it look more like a porcupine than anything else.

Alaric remembered the ogres that had razed dozens of Quel'thalas villages in the Second War. The fires of the forests burned in his memory, and brought forth blazing orbs in his hands. With a hiss, Alaric let loose two jets of white-hot molten death. The ogre fell as its legs were seared out from under it. Dozens of orcs cried out as the flames engulfed them as well.

"Stop Alaric! You might hit our own! It's impossible to tell in this dust!" Sinbad shouted out to him, grabbing the elf's shoulders.

Alaric let the fire go for an instant, instead reaching for another element of the arcane; air. Air had always been his weakest element when studying with the Kirin Tor, but he'd found fast comradeship with Anglus Antonidas who's strengths complemented Alaric's weaknesses. From Antonidas, he'd learned the trick for control of the air currents. In return, he'd helped Antonidas write one of his many theses and treatises while they both studied at the Violet Citadel.

A strong gust of air exploded outward, with Alaric at the epicenter. The dust storm blew outward, disappearing as the seconds drew out. The now cleared air revealed the orc raiding party, or what was left of it, retreating as their cover had been blown and their flank decimated. Burdock Trafford and a few other horsemen chased down some of the fleeing orcs.

What was Fort Highwater, a wooden motte-and-bailey, burned. The garrison, now evacuating the burning wreck, looked on helplessly. Alaric heard Meric screaming at the garrison to put out the flames.

As Alaric approached, Meric turned away from what looked to be the garrison commander.

"You look like shit." Meric commented as Alaric tried to wipe away a new wave of blood pouring from his shattered nose. He could already feel his face swelling and purpling. "Can you conjure water to save these ingrate's holdfast?"

"There's nearly no water in the atmosphere. I can't gather what is not there. Can they not use the aqueduct?" Alaric motioned to the long arches of the waterway that fed down to Honor Hold.

"They say there's no water. The aqueduct has been cut." Meric cursed and spat.

"Then this...was a diversion?" Alaric realized.

Meric nodded. "They must've hit us simultaneously. The garrison reported the water ran red before they were hit. Blood from Castle Cloude, likely. If the water's been cut, then Cloude has already been overrun. We've been outflanked and deprived of water. At best, Honor Hold has a week, two week's supply saved up. Then..."

"...and then we all die." Lotus tel'Tallon finished, picking her arrows from the scattered bodies.

Hellfire Citadel, Outland

Kargath Bladefist watched from the ramparts as his various bands of warriors returned from their battles.

They chanted marching songs in their harsh native Orcish as the black gates of the Citadel swung open for them. The Warchief of the Horde broke into a twisted grin as his victorious champions began to pile elf and human ears and noses. He could smell the fresh trophies and blooded weapons from up here, sixty feet up on the haphazardly constructed ramparts of Hellfire Citadel.

"Delicious." An orc at his side licked his lips. The short, broken tusked orc with a hugely bloated belly was Noszer Alleater, Warlord of the Bloody Howl clan. The orc preferred the name Meat Pile, which his clan had given him when he'd eaten two entire boars and a human limb in a single sitting.

Drawing up his clan from the remnants of others following cursed Ner'zhul's botched attempt to escape the Draenor, Noszer had quite literally eaten his way to the top until he found something he couldn't consume; Kargath. Having slain and consumed any orc in his domain powerful enough to challenge him, Noszer had moved on Kargath's Shattered Hand clan turf. At that point, he had pledged his loyalty to his new Warchief, and together the Bladefist and the Alleater had reunited the broken orcs of Draenor.

"Calm, Noszer." Hamilcar of the Laughing Skull clan growled. Among all the chieftains Kargath had gathered, Hamilcar was the most levelheaded. A dozen other orc chieftains stood with Kargath, the Alleater, and Hamilcar, watching as the dismembered pile grew thick and tall with more body parts. Eyes gleaming, many of the chieftains stomped their feet in approval. A few hung back though.

For nearly twenty years, Kargath fought with his fellow orcs to claim the mantle of Warchief of the Horde. Through blood and conquest, he had rallied nearly all the old clans of Draenor to his cause. After the diabolical Illidan Stormrage had arrived and enslaved the pit lord Magtheridon, Kargath had pledged his loyalty to the night elf in recognition of his suzerainty over the world. In return was blessed with the handling of Magtheridon's prison and all the fel magic sources that came with it. His warlocks channeling the fel magic of Magtheridon, Kargath was able to transform his Shattered Hand into the most powerful army in Draenor.

Illidan soon became a non-factor, preferring to secluded himself within the Black Temple rather than rule over his new world. When the day came that Kargath refused to pay tribute to Illidan, not a whisper had come from the Black Temple.

_Illidan is dead, most likely. Dead or gone, _Kargath had told himself. With his clan newly empowered with daemonic energy, he had gone on to conquer or kill all the orcs left in Draenor, save the nomadic Mag'har clans. In turn, the Shadowmoons, Bonechewers, Laughing Skulls, Bleeding Hollows, Dragonmaws, Bloody Howls, and more had fallen under the sway of his Shattered Hand clan.

Still though, there were those who were unsure of Kargath's leadership, or Illidan's impotence. They stood together in the back of the crowd. These four had pledged their word to the Horde, but words were hot air and not conviction. Kargath knew their kind. They would need...convincing.

A grunt appeared before the chieftain gathering, a fine coating of red gristle splattered grey matter coating his rough leather tunic. The orc pounded his chest and bowed before Kargath.

The Bladefist stood above his chieftains by a good foot, and was distinguished by his markedly different skin color. Down his back, a ferocious line of sharp, browning bones extended outward from his spine, piercing through the knobby skin of his back.

"Warchief, we have crushed the human castle at the foot of the mountains. The warlocks were able to disguise our advance until we were able to fully surround the enemy and cut them off from reinforcements. The diversion at the middling fort slowed them long enough for us to fully break their water supply line as you commanded. We took fifty six ears from the middling, and over three hundred from the foothill castle."

"Excellent." Kargath smiled, feeling his peeling red flesh began to crack at the seams of his mouth. The pain exhilarated him. The warlocks had soaked him in the power of the demons, slowly transforming him into an even greater weapon.

"Do you believe in the strength of the Bladefist now!?" Kargath bellowed to his chieftains. "We have won a great victory against the humans, but this is but a taste of what is to come. No longer can their great walls and magical spells protect them. Danath and his lickspittle will now be forced to meet us in the field where our strength is greatest in hopes that they can push us back long enough to repair their false river."

"We will follow you Warchief!" A voice cried out from the gathering.

"Kargath Bladefist will return the Horde to its glory!" Noszer screamed, beating his belly with hammy hands.

"We will be greater than when we first drank the demon blood!" Another agreed.

One grey bearded orc brooded quietly behind the rest.

"What say you, Tuul?" Kargath insinuated. Tuul was old, one of the few orcs that remembered the days before the first gifts from the demons.

"What is this victory you speak of? A few hundred dead on their side and ours. We don't have the numbers we had in Doomhammer's day. The greater whole of our people passed to Azeroth. The orcs of Draenor are a dying breed, but you insist on fighting this ancient war?" Tuul responded. "I only suggest that we should conserve our strength and rebuild more. Let us return to our ancestral lands to heal and purge our souls." Three other chieftains nodded silently.

"You would have us make _peace _with the Alliance? To live with these invaders in our lands?"

"For a time only." Tuul stated tacitly. "For decades we have battered ourselves against the humans. We will overwhelm them in time. But we must maintain the survival of our people before all."

Kargath walked over to Tuul, towering over the lesser orc.

"The Horde is a machine for war. The industry of our people is carnage. To have peace is to rust our blades. To have agreement is to die. In war we are honed to razor-sharpness and cut away the weakest of ourselves. While I live, the orcs will never become soft. We will achieve our potential, take back this world, and use the power we have harnessed from the demons to defeat them and conquer all the stars in the sky. Under me, as under Blackhand and Doomhammer, the strong will thrive and the weak will feed them." Kargath said.

"As you say, Warchief." Tuul acknowledged, bowing his head. The look on his face said he was not defeated though. This one was a cancer that would eat the Horde inside out. None of the old guard could remain who still spoke against the Warchief.

"Any share the dreams of Cheiftain Tuul Zaiat will share his fate. He will simply disappear like a stone dropped in water." Kargath stated.

The old orc's eyes went wide in realization. In the swiftness of a second, Kargath lifted his artificial scythed hand and in a single motion cut Tuul from shoulder to waist. The two halves of the hapless orc splattered onto the ramparts before the rest of the audience. The chieftains, save the unconvinced three, erupted into cheers.

_So, it will take more than strength to convince them. These clans must either be turned or disposed of. _

Nothing would be more convincing than total victory over the Alliance. A return to full, uncontested control of Draenor's heartlands would be the final seal in the reunification of the Horde and the ascendancy of the orcs once more. With the Twisting Nether's spiraling bands approaching in the skies once more, the time would never be more ripe than now. Their warriors would be at their strongest, the warlocks at their most powerful.

Kargath faced his warriors below to address them.

"Without their water supply, the humans in Honor Hold will come to meet us in haste. When we slay them, collect their bodies. We will pick the bones clean and use them to pave a road to the ruins of their castle so that all who cross it will remember the folly of resisting the Horde!"

"FOR THE HORDE" Thousands of throats erupted all throughout the Hellfire Citadel.

Honor Hold

A sad funeral dirge played out as the carefully wrapped remains of the slaughtered were transported to grotto beneath the rock that Honor Hold sat on. The great fist of stone dominated the landscape, but gave no sign of sympathy or comfort for the assembled Sons of Lothar. The chilled air was silent save the songs of three women; a child, a warrior, and a crone.

Alaric recognized the song as _My Children of Olein. _It was an ancient elegy first sung at the burning of the legendary human city of Olein in the Tartaris Mountains in what was now Lordaeron. The heartrending tune was accompanied by even more poignant lyrics.

_...So go my child far into night,_

_Sleep soundly babe in arms so tight,_

_Let not the tears wake your rest,_

_While fires burn red light,_

_Have strength my child in this test,_

_Life tis but a jest._

Wind howled dully through the night as the bodies were carried into the catacombs. When at last the final pallbearer reemerged from the caverns, the assembly broke. Alaric saw some faces with tears glistening in the torchlight, while others held stony anger.

Alaric felt their sadness biting at him, reminding him of the utter grief he had felt when Quel'thalas fell. So many of his people had fallen into a catatonic shock on the voyage out of the Bay of Silvermoon. He himself had felt like he was a wooden puppet, pulled along only by some false strings until Prince Kael'thas had reignited the flames in his heart.

_In war, those you fight with and suffer with are your closet family, _the elf told himself. He'd always known that fact, even in icy Northrend or the jungles of Ashenvale. Again and again, he'd distanced himself from the thousands of souls following him, trying to ignore that feeling. It was the only way to send thousands to their deaths and remain sane. But now, amongst them...

He stood and listened to the only noise on the field now; footsteps. Suddenly, a warm hand clasped his shoulder. It was Meric Bastonn, flickering shadows casted across his face. A gust of wind caught the flame of Meric's torch and shone the light on his face, revealing a wet face and puffy eyes. The licks of light disappeared, but the image burned into Alaric's mind.

"You did well today, Alaric. The Sons of Lothar will need you in the days to come." Meric shuffled off with the others in the darkness, their torches snaking back up the trail to the patchwork walls of the castle.

Alaric stood for a time, watching the snaking current of fire weaving back and forth with each step. He felt in that moment as if he understood these people a little better. Despite their coldness, they clung to each other desperately. Every life mattered, everyone was family. All the effort and energy of their lives had been expended digging a niche in this hostile world knowing that though they held the past in their hearts, they could never return to it. And yet here he was; a ghost of their memories, a reflection of their nightmares.

_Fighting for dreams. Fighting for each other_. They were remarkably similar to him, and so completely different.

When the procession of swaying torches thinned and disappeared, Alaric began his ascent to Honor Hold alone. Perched on a cliff around the corner of the castle's great iron gates was Lotus tel'Tallon.

"Kargath has our king in check. We will move soon." She said, sensing the elf approaching.

"Then I will go with you." Alaric responded.

The she-elf's eyes glittered in the starlight as she surveyed the Hellfire Peninsula. Her eyes and lips tightened in surprise, but she did not look away from the baked plains and craggy canyons.

"For how long, though? What of your quest?" Lotus asked. She turned to look at him.

"I will see this battle through and ensure that the sons and daughters of Azeroth are safe. To take us all home though, I will need the help of many skilled mages. I can...create a gateway, but to sustain it I require the aid of powerful magi. The blood magic of the elves here can hold such a portal open. With enough luck, we can hold it long enough to bring everyone to Azeroth."

"Then how did you come here?" Lotus swung herself around.

"With the waters of the Well of Eternity. I travelled to mystical Hyjal with a band of brave warriors. With their aid, we gathered the nourishment of Nordrassil the World Tree. With this power, we retook Quel'thalas." Alaric explained, skipping to the main points.

"Quel'thalas." Lotus tasted the word. "I was born on the Amani Borders to the Tallon tribe. The blood of the Rangers ran in our family. I remember running through the tall pines in the fresh autumn snows. My sisters and I caught hares in special traps that our mother and father showed us how to make. We would then let the hares go and chase after them until we were breathless."

Alaric nodded, remembering the crisp, fresh air of Quel'thalas as the seasons changed in the Borderlands. In the Heartlands, within the Sungates, the seasons rarely came and went. The land was bathed in an eternal mix of green springs and golden autumns, kept perpetual by the power of the High Elves that lived there.

"I was born in to Duke Ruahal Tenar'Quel of Tranquillen Village. My father, then I, were Stewards of the Tetrarch Sanguine Amulets that King Anasterian wore on occasion. When great victories were had, he would celebrate triumphs down the streets of Silvermoon wearing them. They were the most beautiful objects ever carved from the earth by elven hands."

"That is how I met Prince Kael'thas. One day the Prince and I stole one of the Amulets away from its altar. We took it to the Goldenblood which ran near my father's chateau to marvel at its deep colors and radiance. We played at being King ourselves, stamping around the riverside in mock parades...when we dropped it into the waters."

Alaric the motion of something slipping from his hands. Lotus giggled.

"You lost one of the King's most prized possessions? A crown jewel? Just like that?"

"Indeed." Alaric laughed, feeling lighthearted for the first time in a long while. "The King was so furious that two mischievous sirelings could so easily take one of the four Amulets that he sent my father far off to Stormwind to act as Ambassador."

"You mean exiled him?"

"Initially, yes. But Anasterian forgave my father for he was a kindly and wise soul. He asked if my father would not return to Tranquillen, but Ruahal Tenar'Quel decided he was of more use to the king by representing his interests in Stormwind than rather than sitting on old treasures."

"The older elves at Allerian Stronghold, those who managed to glimpse Amulets during the King's triumphs, told me of their raw splendor and magnificence. How I wish I could see such things. Growing up on the Borders meant we had the glory of nature, but none of the opulence of the capitol. When the orcs came burning the forests, I had just ranked as full Ranger. I fought with the Alliance from Quel'thalas to the Dark Portal and beyond, never since glimpsing the home I left behind."

"The Amulets are gone." Alaric said, feeling the happiness of reminiscence dissipating. "They melted to slag along with all of the royal treasures when the Scourge razed Tranquillen to the ground. They are ruined and buried in the ashes of our civilization."

"But what of the one in the river?" Lotus asked.

"What?"

"Was it ever recovered?"

"Indeed it was not." Alaric laughed, seeing her point. He had never thought that one of the most crucial symbols of elvish heritage might still exist, half-buried in the mud of a river somewhere.

"Then perhaps there is hope I can see it yet." Lotus brightened.

"I suppose there is always hope." Alaric responded. The two laughed. When the laughter subsided, Lotus returned her eyes to scanning the horizon.

"I am on sentry duty until the moon crests the mountains. You should get some rest. You fought well today." She said, closing their exchange.

"I misspoke this morning..." Alaric fumbled at an apology for his callous words in their previous conversation.

"You're not so bad after all, Alaric'Quel." Lotus said, continuing to examine the desolate landscape.

Smiling, Alaric turned to face the walls of Honor Hold. Walking through the causeway and gates, the elf stopped to stare at the skies once more. He reached into his pocket, and fingered the Vial he hadn't told Lotus about.

The stars burned as ever, but the alien bands of the Nether swirled ominously like drops of blood in water. Somewhere beyond its shroud, Azeroth awaited. Alaric turned his gaze to the east, where Kael'thas and his kin waited.


End file.
